


The Long Walk

by therewithasmile



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Adventure, Canon Compliant, Cross-Posted on FanFiction.Net, F/M, Lyrium Addiction, Lyrium Withdrawal, Minor Character Death, POV Male Character, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Relationship, Slow Burn, Some Humor, Sorry but people are going to die, Unresolved Sexual Tension, au-ish, minor characters though, what did you expect it's a long journey
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-20
Updated: 2016-03-17
Packaged: 2018-05-02 12:31:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5248373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therewithasmile/pseuds/therewithasmile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maker, he had almost thought she'd died. But the Herald returns, a martyr come back to life, and he can't help but to be fascinated by her. When she'd set out to kill the Elder One, Cullen had regretted he only realized too late that maybe, in another life, he would've liked to know her more.  Now that he has that chance, he's not quite sure what to do with himself. But all  these intrusive, persuasive feelings, could - should - wait until they find a new home. </p><p>Andraste, if only he can wait that long. </p><p>A story that depicts the journey to Skyhold, as Cullen Rutherford and Sol Trevelyan grow from being comrades-in-arms to friends - and somewhere down the line, love is thrown in the mix. Only they don't know it. Featuring the fun slow burn and unresolved sexual tension.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This idea came as I wanted to do a slow burn that was atypical to the usual retellings of Inquisition. Thus, this installment, at least, will only follow what happens as Haven et al look for Skyhold. This is my first longfic in a while, and first in Dragon Age. I'll try to keep to semi-regular updates, but I am a full time student as well!
> 
> I also have a tumblr and ffnet where you can read and follow me for whatever other reason you please. Same handle as here, therewithasmile.

_She hesitates at the door, one hand on the handle, and she looks like she has something to say. Instead, she turns to him. Her blue eyes are cool, her dark mahogany hair already pulled into its telltale ponytail. Her skin is flushed, her hand already gripping the oak staff - so similar to ones he once damned._

_“Good luck,” she says. For all he knows, it could be the last time he’ll see her again._

_Cullen swallows. For a brief second, something like regret bubbles in his stomach - in another life, he would’ve wanted to get to know her better, to know her more by her name and not as the Herald of Andraste. It’s his own fault now, he thinks, and he can’t help but to absolve that, if they somehow make it out of here alive, he’ll learn her first name._

_He rips himself from his thoughts, bringing himself back to reality. The terrified screaming, the cries for mothers, fathers, caregivers, the groans of pain from wounds and burns and other terrors he cannot begin to fathom._

_“You will need it more than I,” he says solemnly. For a moment her expression softens - one he’s seen before, but never personally - and she gives a firm nod, and then the door swings shut behind her._

.

The first sign of extraneous activity is yelling - loud yelling, at that. It doesn’t take any prompting; Cullen’s hands reach for his sword and he’s already halfway to unsheathing it when he finally makes out what caused the intrusion in the first place. Figures in the distance, walking with a limp. If he was scared, it was quickly overtaken by the coolness of battle, the sudden overwhelming desire to protect the people who’d escaped Haven with him, who’d _just_ managed to get a brief moment of respite after the third child had begun to cry.

He feels sick to his stomach. His hands almost begin to shake, and he briefly wonders if it’s because of the situation, their enemies, his _friends_ , or the lack of Lyrium that made him so. But he feels _sick_ and he can’t breathe and for a few moments, everything dulls - becomes a heavy fog around him.

It takes another few moments before can make out the words, though - and for it to process that the yelling isn’t due to a threat. And then it registers, the two, protruding horns, and the details fall into place. The frillier outline of Dorian’s tunic. The shorter yet unmistakingly powerful form of Varric. And of course, The Iron Bull - who, despite all of Cullen’s preconceived notions, actually looks worse for wear.

He can see Lady Montilyet already halfway up the camp, and upon another glance, he can see that Lady Nightingale is already at their side.  He exchanges a look with Seeker Pentaghast, who rises from her position beside him, and they both hasten their pace to the party.

“- she told us to run -”

“She _what_?” Cullen says as he pushes his way to them. The three companions turn to him in synchronicity in an almost comedic reaction, if it isn’t for the deep gashes in The Iron Bull’s arms, the dark purple splotches that were visible even along Dorian’s caramel skin, and the way Varric heavily favoured one leg over another.

“The Boss,” says The Iron Bull. “She told us to get out - to survive.”

Concern flares at the base of his stomach - a quick sweep around tells him that the feeling isn’t exclusive to him. It’s that same overwhelming feeling - what if they got to her? They were templars, they knew how to torture mages - and he realizes his expression must’ve soured, as Varric watches him with a keen eye. He speaks first. “I have faith in her, Curly.” The look in the dwarf’s eyes say it all, the steely onyx only showing the strength of conviction in his words.

For the first twenty minutes or so, the thought is comforting. But then, with every passing moment, with every passing pace, the dread begins to seep in once more. By now, the returning party had gone by the fire, talking in low voices amongst themselves. The newcomer, the Spirit, speaks lowly to Solas, before he’s gone - and then he’s by the Chancellor’s side, one knobby hand on the man’s forehead.

Loud, deliberate footsteps pull him from his thoughts, and he halts his pacing as Seeker Pentaghast stops beside him. “We should move.”

“But the Herald-” he finds himself saying, but her look - though remorseful - remains resolute.

“We’re too exposed here. We should find more shelter,” she says. And then she lowers her voice. “I don’t think the Herald would want that. She wanted everyone to live.”

Cullen sighed. He didn’t need to look to see the current state of affairs, the way the innocent citizens of Haven had their heads bowed, how morale seems an all time low. And it’s cold, bitingly cold, and he can only thank the Maker that the extra supply of blankets in the Chantry had been retrieved before they’d left Haven all together.

The Seeker is still waiting for confirmation, he realizes, and he swallows, giving one nod to her. Pentaghast rises and gives a low nod in return, and then she’s gone, striding to the stationary Nightingale’s side. He watches as they exchange low words, and then returns his attention to the fire, to the companions.

Their heads turn in his direction. At least the companions who’d gone into battle have been looked after - the Bull has gauze wrapped around his arm, looking surprisingly frail in comparison to whom it was supposed to be mending; Varric had managed to find a large branch to use as a makeshift cane; Dorian has a rather gooey looking paste slathered on his skin. Cullen swallows - for a moment, he wonders if they resent him for not fighting with the Herald, for not joining with the fighting where he ought. He blames himself, too.

“We’re moving,” he says.

It’s Madame De Fer who speaks, of all people. “And what of the Herald?”

The silence washes over them, and for once, Cullen doesn’t quite know what to say. Is he to convince them of her selflessness, which he’s sure they know better than he?

It’s within the silence that he notices that the other elf - Sera - is bristling. “You're planning on running - leaving her behind?” The indignation in her voice is loud, poignant, _serious,_  and for a moment, Cullen backpedals.

“We can leave fires,” says a voice behind him. Cullen doesn’t have to turn to know who speaks, but he does so anyways, facing Solas as he speaks. “A trail for her to follow.”

“We’d be leaving the mongrels to come after us,” says Dorian, his voice hard, completely lacking of any teasing that was usually in the man’s tone.

“The wolves won’t be out tonight,” Solas assures, and there is a certainty in his words that has Cullen wanting to believe them.

“Then we do that,” he decides, and he can feel all eight companion’s attention back to his. “Begin packing, we leave in twenty.”

The activity around him has already swelled. He can hear the groans and protests of the townsfolk being pulled to their feet, the murmurs of thanks as the Chantry sisters distribute small rations of food before they continue their trek. Within minutes, their makeshift resting place is quickly returned on top of the cargo Brontos. The newcomer manages to get the Chancellor on his feet, but the man is pale. He can see the Spirit’s face twist with pain, and Cullen decides against questioning him as the straw haired man leads the Chancellor to a mount, helping him on one of the quartermaster’s horses. With a flash, the Spirit is at his side - and it takes everything within him not to flinch.

“Happy, if not tired, but happy. He did his duty, and now he can sing.”

The newcomer’s voice is soft, almost child-like, and if there was anything Templar training had taught Cullen, it’s to not question beings of the Fade. Generally, this was to not evoke their rage, but as the boy trods off, it’s more because he’s at a loss for words than otherwise.

Cullen shakes his head clear of thoughts watching inky-black smoke curl, fading into the night sky. Absentmindedly, he reaches for one of Varric’s reject canes and tosses it into the dying fire - even if it sustained the weakening embers for a few moments longer, it would be good enough for him. And then he hears Seeker Pentaghast calling for him, and he gives one last look before he joins the rest of the Inquisition.

.

The wind is relentless. His face feels frostbitten and he can’t even _feel_ his ears, the wind howls and snow pelts his skin. He can faintly hear activity behind him, but all details are lost. They’d begun building the fires near trees in some vain hope to provide shelter against the avalanche, but Cullen doesn't doubt that the fires won’t last long. At least beside him, Lady Nightingale walks with similar gusto, several furs drawn tight around her torso to keep away the biting cold.

“There’s an alcove for shelter beyond those two peaks,” she says, her voice rising with the wind. Cullen had long since stopped questioning where she obtains her information - if anything, the people will be happy for some respite, a chance to rest. The sudden flurry-turned-snowstorm hadn’t been anticipated; it only makes Cullen that much more aware that he, all of them, are going into this blind.

They need a leader.

They need _her._

Cullen raises a hand, and he swears he hears a collective murmur of relief behind him. A small part of him swells to know that he’s at least, done something right, but he can’t bear to take a breath until he’s settled - until he can check for everyone. Sure enough, as the head of the Inquisition steps over the hilly snow, he can see the alcove that the Spymaster had advised. Surrounded by a wall of stone, the natural divot in the earth was perfectly protected. He gives a quick nod of approval to the Spymaster, who returns the gesture with a wry smile on her face. He doesn’t bother asking Lady Montilyet, nor does she appear to object. Instead, he places a hand against their Bronto and they descend into the alcove, resolve renewed.

Camp, just as similarly, doesn’t take as long to set up. Thanks to the new mages, small fires are spark to life around camp, tents are pitched at breakneck speed. The women and children are attended to first, the last of the bread distributed and the skins and furs carefully wrapped around them. Solas, along with other locals, quickly volunteer to hunt, and for the first time, Cullen feels as if he can breathe.

Breathing is relative, however. The worry still presses down on his chest, the thought that it could’ve easily been _him_ , out there, attacking innocents take his breath away. Now that he’s no longer worrying about dying prematurely via frostbite, he’s much more aware of the discomfort and discourse inside of him. Pacing suddenly seems like a fantastic idea again, but he pushes the urge away. He can’t be selfish anymore. He has a duty to the people, and perhaps it can help alleviate some of his concerns.

He swings into the medical tent first, where healers bustle about. Many of the makeshift rolls are occupied, but the main one of concern still has the Spirit in question by his side. They’re both silent, the Chancellor terrifyingly still, and the Spirit merely stares, eyes downcast.

“Is he alright?” Cullen finds himself asking.

“He is at peace,” responds the Spirit, almost matter-of-factly, as if it’s the most obvious answer in the world.

The Chancellor’s breathing seems to slow. It’s almost too much to watch, too much to bear, and Cullen steps outside, surprised to hear light footsteps follow.

“If you are to join us, you must have a name,” he says, if only to fill the silence in the air.

The spirit hesitates. “Cole. And you - your heart is heavy.”

Cullen nearly laughs. He’s not sure if it’s meant to be a joke or not, but he finds that he appreciates the sentiment nonetheless. But Cole’s expression is serious, or rather, unchanging.

“Pain - it sings to you, as it sang to them. You resist, why?”

 _Why indeed,_ Cullen thinks sourly, but his attention is diverted as he hears more footsteps approach behind him. Lady Nightingale’s eyes flash to Cole, then him, but she speaks anyways. “Everyone needs to rest. Josephine and I agree that we should stay until morning.”

The Antivan nodded in earnest, the large pelt draped around her shoulders shifting at the movement. “And, that way, if there’s anyway the Herald is alive -”

“- _she’s surprising,_ _surprised -_ ”

“- then maybe your fire plan will work -”

“- _cold, and her hand aches, so cold -”_

“It wasn’t my plan, it was Solas’s,” Cullen corrects. Lady Montilyet gives a little nod.

_“ - everything hurt, everything’s cold -”_

“- Speaking of which, the first hunting party’s returned,” says Leliana, “and it looks like there’s more coming. I think there should be enough food, for now at least.”

“- _you can’t murder snow, how would she murder snow? -”_

“The meat should be cooked and distributed right away,” Cullen commands.

_“- alone, all alone she thinks, and she hurts-”_

“Commander!” Lady Montilyet exclaims suddenly, her voice loud. Her lips are stretched in a tight line, and Cullen finally realizes that she is quite pale. “Can you kindly tell our Spirit to not speak of the Herald like that - not when she’s not with us?”

Her words ring in the alcove, the bustling activity suddenly screeching to a halt. All eyes turn to them, and suddenly the Antivan’s cheeks flush.

“But she _is_ here,” says Cole, undeterred.With no sensitivity to the subject, either, and he says it so calmly, so clearly, that - _Maker._

“Gather a party now!” Cullen commands, and the other advisors are already ahead of him. Lady Montilyet hesitates, before unclasping the fur around her own body to gather in her arms. Half a dozen men half jog, half march to him, and it doesn’t take an order to have them fall in line behind him.

He bounds ahead of the others, crossing the upward slope with no trouble at all. His heart hammers in his chest, and for the first time, hope really surges within him. Once he finally manages to reach a vantage point, for a brief second, disappointment sends him plunging back down. Why- why a _Spirit,_ didn’t his time with the Templars teach him anything about trust, about the Fade, about deceit -

And then he spots it, the tiny flurry of movement. Slowly, but surely, he can see her staggering forward, that same damned Oak staff clutched in her hands, like a walking stick. She’s limping, and from her hand emits an odd green glow, but he doesn’t think as he calls out to his group, doesn’t think as he skids down the mountain.

She looks at him - her glassy, ice blue eyes, round and wide but not with _surprise._ Just relief, so much relief, and he can almost trace the emotion as it swells on her face, her too-pale cheeks dusting with warmth, a faint smile twitching at white lips. His name, just his name, tumbles from her lips, so relieved, so happy, so _warm,_ that as her body collapses against his, he realizes just how cold she really is.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cullen will continue to refer to everyone by their full titles until he gets to know them better. 
> 
> Please tell me your thoughts! A lot of the companions are still new when it comes to writing them, especially Sera. My quizzies and her never manage to see eye to eye, unfortunately.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just kidding - this part is still canon compliant, for now.
> 
> After this, it'll spin out to be its own series! I'm still grasping to see what Cullen would call her. It's weird to think they wouldn't progress to further titles, or maybe they will in this fic. I'll have to listen to what they want, and where they want their story to go. :)
> 
> POV may change sometimes, I liked starting this with Sol's POV but it'll mainly be in Cullen's. We'll see where they want to go, again. 
> 
> Updates won't normally be this frequent. I'm just putting off my term papers, as usual.

_Warm._

She’s warm again.

Safe, too - the first time since the Conclave. She wants to press her fingers against his skin, wants to nestle her head further in the comforting crook in his arm. She sighs into his chestplate, a sound unfurling from her throat as she feels something heavy press upon the length of her body. He’s speaking, and she can’t discern what he says, but the low thrums of his voice is like a melody, Maker, and her eyelids flutter shut. Somewhere, in the back of her mind, a part of her fights to keep consciousness.

But the rest of her body wins, and within moments, she blacks out.

* * *

 

“She’s shivering,” Cullen says, and his heart leaps into his throat as he sees her eyelids flutter. Without a moment’s hesitation, he scoops her into his arms, folding her smaller body into his. The Herald makes a sound of protest, but the words fade as she sighs - and she presses herself further into his chest, shaking hands reaching for his pelts.

Lady Montilyet is suddenly there beside him, carefully draping her own fur onto her shivering form. “Commander, is she -”

“She’s cold, but I’ve seen worse,” is Lady Nightingale’s reply. For once, Cullen’s glad to be alleviated of speaking duties. He shifts his arms to better grip her, and he realizes that she’s all but passed out in his arms. He glances up, glad to collide into Leliana’s gaze, before she gives a curt nod.

“Prepare the medical tent,” she calls back to the assembled party. The half dozen or so men give a half salute before they begin jogging back up the sloped mountain. As soon as they’re out of sight, she turns back to him. “Thank the Maker she’s not more wounded.”

Cullen follows her gaze down to the woman in her arms. He can see various half-healed cuts and welds along her arms, along with a particularly nasty, purple-looking stain deep in her cheek. His grip only tightens in response, and without waiting for a word from the women, he begins to climb back the hill once more.

Seeker Pentaghast catches him halfway on his ascent, a hand reaching to halt him. “I’ve also told them to tell the companions, but also that she’ll need a couple moments to herself before she’s ready to see anyone.” Her adept eyes take one quick look at the Herald’s visage. “We’ll probably need another fur as well.” Cullen only nods hollowly. For a moment, she shifts again in his arms, something like a complaint falling from her lips, but only further pulling at the blanket on top of her. Something like a smile, a _fond_ smile, stretches across the Seeker’s lips. “She’s so stubborn.”

“Like all of our company,” he deadpans, and for a brief second, Cassandra barks a laugh. It’s more out of relief than anything else, he imagines, but she’s _safe,_ and she’ll be okay. 

The Herald will live. 

* * *

 

Word of the Herald’s arrival had already spread in camp, but it’s thanks to her Companions that the rest of Haven doesn’t surge in as he approaches. Certainly, heads turn to him and the woman in his clutches, and expressions of concern tinge those closest to her. Cullen ignores them, for now, and only makes straight for the camp, exchanging a nod with Varric and Bull as he passes them, giving a smile at Blackwall and Dorian, whose expressions were perhaps the most concerned.

He lays her carefully on one of the elevated rolls, a makeshift bed of wooden planks assembled precariously. At least the sheets were still clean - as clean as they would be. The Herald groans as her back hits the wood, and for a moment she seems like she’s going to protest again. But another pelt is laid overtop of her, and her protests quiet. 

Cullen raises his eyes to catch Cole, his expression a welcome neutral as opposed to concern. There is something self satisfying in his stance, before he turns his gaze to Cullen. “She’s warmer.” 

“Is there anything else we could do?” 

The Spirit seems to ponder a moment. “Change her clothes, give comfort.” And then he’s gone - but Cullen doesn’t have to look far. He only manages to spot a wisp of the Spirits tattered clothing and straw coloured hair, before the person he’d approached came whisking forward. With the same high and urgent air around her, Madame Le Fer ducks into the tent. Cullen at least has the decency to leave before he’s shooed out, and the familiar tug of magic begins to stir in the pits of his very being. Restoration magic, he recognizes - at least it doesn’t provoke the usual temper, the usual panging. 

And just like that, it starts again - the panging, the _pain_. Is it due to the absence of worry, now that the Herald was safe?  Certainly, it’s that, and the fact that magic is so close. His blood boils and his throat goes dry, and suddenly finds himself _very_ interested in the jug on the table in front of him. Whether mead, wine, or water, anything could probably quench this thirst, the thirst that grew ever more abundant as he even let a single fiber of his being linger on it.

He only manages to pour out half a glass (water, as it were) before he’s interrupted again, light tapping on his shoulder.

“The Herald - is she alive?”

The richer tones of Mother Giselle has him straightening the jug quickly. A bit of the liquid lops over the edge of the rim, but both of them pretend not to notice. “She is. She’s in the medical tent,” he says, after managing to find his voice. The fire stings at the bottom of his throat, and he’s not quite sure if he’s thankful or angry at the interruption. 

If she’s noticed any change in him, she politely refrains from pointing them out. Only a brief _thank the Maker_ blows from her lips, a sentiment he echos. “Madame Vivienne is with her, treating her wounds.” 

The Chantry sister gives a deep nod before dancing around him. Cullen sighs and finally raises the glass to his lips - _ice_ cold, clearly gathered from fresh snow on the ground. As the liquid travels down his throat, at least it manages to stamp out a few residual flames that licked hungrily in his chest. 

He sighs and lowers the glass. It doesn’t take long to notice the anomaly, whereas everyone else is talking in hushed whispers, shooting glances at the medical tent here and there, he doesn’t miss Seeker Pentaghast’s lingering stare, the way she watches him lower the gold flute onto the table. Cullen swallows - _is_ he okay? With all the excitement, it had been easy to ignore the singing of lyrium. But now, in the presence of so many mages, with the hollow echo and ache of his muscles and bones, the need for _anything_ thrums in his stomach. But the water had helped, even marginally, and for a brief moment, he thinks he has it under control. 

Cullen gives one, slow, tentative nod. 

Cassandra’s only response is to tear her eyes away.

* * *

 

He waits until the embers are nearly out, after who’s closer to her had a chance to speak with her. Solas was the first to pull her aside, and as soon as she returned to her temporary bed, it was Sera, then Blackwall, then Dorian, and the list went on. The only other one who doesn’t bother speaking to her is Cole, but he remains outside - a silent protector, and the unchanging, yet vaguely serene, expression on his face shows Cullen all he needs.

She was the one who always came to him, so for once, he supposes he could return the favour.

What he doesn’t expect, however, is an mildly annoyed “ _is there something else?_ ” that comes from within the tent. It is partially his fault, for lingering for as long as he did, but her voice is more worn and tired than upset and, for a few seconds, he considers leaving her be. But he fights it back - after all, he’s checked on his other soldiers before, and this was no different.

“Commander,” she gasps as he ducks inside, and for a moment, her still too-pale cheeks dust red. The Herald swallows and laughs a little, a nervous tinkle of bells. “I hadn’t thought -”

Cullen holds up his hand - she has nothing to apologize for, after all, and her mouth closes. “How are you feeling?” he asks.

“Tired,” she responds, and in the fading light, he can see her ice blue irises flickering. “No worse than you, I suppose.” She shuffles once in her bed, her clothing removed and exchanged with a new set of clothing, a simple set of button down, warm looking pyjamas. Cullen makes a mental note to thank Madame Le Fer in the morning.

Cullen shrugs. “I wanted to account for everyone before the night ended.”

The silence that wraps them isn’t uncomfortable, but small pinpricks of anticipation begin to gnaw at his forearm before she speaks again, soft. “Thanks for everything.”

For a moment, he’s shocked at her words. Thank - _thank,_ him? He wasn’t the one who turned around to fight, he wasn’t the one who trekked through the snow by himself to find them again. Emotion cause the words to stick to his throat and he swallows thickly. “We all should be thanking you.”

“I’ve had enough thanks to last me a lifetime,” the Herald says half seriously. And then her brief, teasing tone is gone, replaced by seriousness. “No, thank _you_ , Commander. You got everyone out, and kept them together.”

He’s truly at a loss for words now, and he only manages a quick nod. His response earns a smile, just a brief upturn of her lips. Just like that, the moment passes, and he finds himself able to speak again. “I’ll leave you, then?” 

She nods once, her eyes drooping sleepily as her mahogany hair falls in small ringlets around her face, sprung free from their updo. He gives a nod of his own - he’s suddenly aware of how much he’s been nodding tonight - and turns. 

“Commander?”  Cullen pauses. Her tone is mildly apologetic. “Can you fetch me another fur?” 

He doesn’t think as he reaches beside him, fingers grasping for a fluffy-feeling one. He half tosses, half hands the fur to her, which she catches with another, tired-looking smile. “Thank you,” she says, and her voice seems to droop with her weariness.  

“Goodnight, Herald,” he says quietly. She wrinkles her nose briefly, but he’s too tired and weary to even attempt to find out why.

“Goodnight,” she whispers, the two syllables ghosting on his ear.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is slightly more mundane; it's necessary in the scope of the fic but isn't particularly the most exciting. As usual, please let me know what you think.

His hands fist into too-thin sheets, his heart hammers into his chest, and for a few wild moments, his eyes dart around - searching for the voice, the fire, the demon, the temptress who sang maddening songs into his ear with a devil’s lute - and the darkness that falls upon him is maddeningly frightening. He recalls the bodies they’d set ablaze the night before, the sound of crying and quiet prayers flush in his ears.  He doesn’t know where he is - doesn’t know what’s happened, but he knows he’s cold, he’s alone, and he’s certainly not within four stone Chantry walls that he’d slowly been learning to call home.

The only way Cullen knows it’s morning is the faint chirping of birdsong, the quiet lilts punctuating his heavy, nearly panting, breaths.

He barely manages another as he peels the bed sheets off him - even without the extra pelts, he feels as if he’s sweated through his underclothes. Surely, they cling to his body even without the sheets as a weight; Cullen shrugs his way out of those, too, and instead replaces them with the neatly folded clothing that lay beside him in preparation. The almost welcome cold is gone too soon, he sips another delicate breath as his armour caresses his skin. Though they aren’t warm by any means, he can almost feel the pieces of his chestplate warm accordingly to his body.

He pushes the tent flap aside.

Another blast of cold air hits his face, but it’s mostly refreshing rather than repulsive. His inhale is crisp, cool; he allows himself an indulgent few breaths, feeling them travel down his throat, not quite reaching where he’d like, in that pool of aching hunger that isn’t for food, but he feels himself calm. The echoing reverb of singing quiets. The image of the demon, of ice blue, blurs in his mind, and he’s not sure if it’s from the cold, being awake, or sheer willpower, when the picture becomes incomprehensible within the confines of his own mind.

A low hush of voices catches his attention. Though most of the snow has been cleared from the continuous trodding from last night, facets of orange and yellow reflect the slowly rising sun. Unmarred by human settlement, their small alcove soon glows soft shades of warm colours, the birdsong louder now - and under any other circumstance, he may have taken some time to appreciate the tranquility.

Instead, he toes around the other advisor’s tents, towards the quietly discussing voices. His eyes stray at the medical tent - and for a brief moment, panic and concern spikes at the base of his stomach at the absent bedroll - until he discerns her Ostwick accent, her voice a part of the texture of the others who were up this early in the morning.

And there she is, back turned to him. Her mahogany hair is already pulled tight into a single ponytail, and her pyjamas from the previous night is replaced with her usual robes. Around her are her other companions - he can see the tresses of Blackwall’s hair to her left, Solas’s taller figure peeks out on her other side. Of course they’d be awake, Cullen realizes, as they often traveled like this on their own, unlike the rest of his troops - even the other advisors.

It’s the Herald’s head who turns first as he approaches. “Commander,” she greets, her blue eyes already aware, a stark contrast to the warm glow of her face in the morning light.

“Herald,” he returns, and turns to greet her companions with a nod. “How are you feeling?”

Her nose wrinkles briefly, as if considering her words. But as she speaks, her voice is confident - unyielding. “Well enough to travel,” she responds cordially, but the sentiment doesn’t reach her eyes. Instead, they lift to beyond his shoulder. “Cassandra,” she greets and she dips her head.

“We should rouse camp,” is the Seeker’s lower, gruffer voice from behind him. “And begin moving If you’re well enough, of course.” A shred of concern colours the woman’s tone, one that Cullen has only grown too familiar with. The Herald gives another nod before she stretches - her figure elongates as her arms reach skyward, a groan of satisfaction spilling from her lips. Cullen turns away at that.

He only manages to remove two pegs of his tent before other soldiers take over. Cullen steps back with a low murmur of thanks, and takes one sweeping look at the camp. Most of them are awake now. Only a few of the children protest, but everyone else is working: taking down the tents, rolling them tightly, passing them to be mounted onto the druffalo and bronto. A few Chantry Sisters mill about, passing out food rations. Several more, as well as the locals from Haven, are several paces away, paying respects to those who’ve passed. Madame Le Fer is speaking in a low voice to the First Enchanter, the elven rogue is at least entertaining the ones too young to really do any work. The rest mill around the Herald, along with Leliana and Lady Montilyet. And then the Herald rises from hunching over the map, catching his eye.

“We head north,” she says as he approaches. “It's the only logical route through the mountains.”  For a brief second, Trevelyan turns to Solas, who only gives one, deep nod. And then she turns to him, her blue eyes searching his, as if she’s asking for permission.

Something about the thought almost makes Cullen chuckle.

“After you, then,” he says lowly. Her eyebrow lifts and he can sense the question on her tongue, but it’s Cassandra who interrupts.

“You and Solas should lead the way,” says the Seeker, with more finality than him. And then her voice warms. “It’s the most logical conclusion.”

The Herald’s voice remains as flabbergasted as her face betrays. “The most logical conclusion is that one of you lead. Surely, if not the Commander, than you, or our Spymaster, or Josephine.”

“It has to be you,” the Spymaster says simply. The Herald seems to ponder this, her eyes rolling over from Lady Nightingale, to Seeker Pentaghast, and then to him. She seems to take a deep inhale, her shoulders rising, before she exhales.

“If you’re sure…”

“We all are,” says Cassandra again, in an almost encouraging way. The Herald looks at her companions, and it’s Solas’s nod that has her finally releasing her breath.

“Then I thank you for the honour,” she says solemnly.

* * *

Hushed conversations swirl around Cullen, most of which indiscernible - and even if it weren’t, he’d feel guilty for eavesdropping.  Several paces ahead of him, the Herald and her companions sit on horses, thankfully still being well treated and fed by the Quartermaster. He can see her swishing mahogany hair, every bump causing it to swing back and fro. She, too, is engaged in quiet conversation, mostly to Solas beside her, but occasionally twisting to speak to Dorian or Bull as well. With nothing but his own thoughts to occupy him, his hand twists on the grip of his sword, concentrating on the steadiness of his feet.  He swallows and pushes himself ahead by several paces, putting more distance between him and the rest, between him and the mages, between the singing that was so different from the monotonous flush of sentient voices.

Cullen’s not sure how long they’ve been walking, but he’s sure it’s been several hours by the time she twists her horse to a stop. Thankfully, too, for the swell of voices had melted away, then come back in the form of grumbles. Hunger. Tiredness. The call of nature, as well - and he’s beginning to feel it too before his feet snag to a stop.

Immediately, he turns and selects several men to hunt, assigning others to setting temporary shelter and to begin building fires. And then he ducks aside, intending to relieve himself before he’s needed again.

He’s barely slipped his trousers back on before Cole appears before him - and he barely manages to swallow a swear. “They are concerned,” says the spirit. “The people, they wonder why you aren’t leading.”

Cullen hesitates.

He’s not sure what to say - what to justify. It just makes _sense_ to him - because she’s the Herald, she’s their saviour, and he’s just a commander. Because he’s not fit to lead, not in his current state, maybe not ever - because he doesn’t want to lead.

Because being with the mages makes his blood boil with craving, _shame_.

He shakes his head. It doesn’t seem as if Cole is looking for an answer either, but the Spirit walks with him as they return to the clearing. The smell of cooking meat suddenly floods his nose, enticing his stomach. The Herald and her companions are already eating, still speaking in hushed, quiet voices. He takes his portion of meat and looks for the other advisors instead.

They’re not far off, but neither seem in the mood for talking. The eating happens quickly, quietly, and he for a brief second, he can hear a child complain - and then the hush of another. The camp plunges into silence for several heartbeats more.

And then the Herald stands in silent command. The companions follow soon after, and Cullen doesn’t hesitate as he does the same.

* * *

The Herald doesn’t stop them until the sun threatens to sink below the sky. This time, it’s completely silent. Despite the cold, the biting air that nips viciously at his nose, Cullen can’t help but to feel _too_ warm. His cheeks are warm and his pelts seem too heavy, his limbs sag and for a moment, he toys with the idea of simply lying down. A couple volunteers follow Bull, Sera, and Blackwall into the wilderness, otherwise the rest of the company all but collapse on the frosted ground before them.

The murmur is more discernable now, more from the townsfolk than the inquisition. While Cullen can’t hear, he can easily read it in their body language; their vague hostility, questioning, curiosity.

Her ice blue eyes catch his attention - but the Herald isn’t watching him.  she merely follows his gaze. Her lips pull into a bit of a frown.

As much as he’s used to reading Mages, she’s just as used to reading Templars, Cullen supposes.

But if she’s offended, she says nothing, she only leans over to murmur something into Madame Le Fer’s ears, before she straightens with still a quirk in her lip. Half of him wonders what the conversation is, but his attention is suddenly is pulled away as he sees some soldiers approach him. Immediately after dismissing them, a somewhat braver - if not frailer- looking lady approaches. Judging by her clothing, the inquisition pelts that adorned her shoulders, and the lack of muscle, she must be one of the townsfolk. For a brief moment, her chocolate eyes flit to the Herald, but then they settle on his, with an almost startling amount of conviction.

 “Commander, is there a spare fur?”

 Her face is pale with no healthy glow to rouse her cheeks. She seems to shake, too, trembling under her own, thin-looking pelt. But there are no spare pelts, no extra furs - they’d been passed around before, and Cullen glances at the smaller animals the camp had eaten.

 “I’m sorry,” he murmurs. “There are none to spare. However, if the hunting goes well tomorrow, we may be able to clean one.”

 For a long, dismal moment, Cullen thought the woman’s expression might warm. Instead, it remains tight, if not a touched frightened, but she merely bows her head. Her eyes flicker back to the Herald, and then they drop to her feet instead. And then she’s off - and he can see her unsteady step, disappointment weighing down her shoulders.

 It’s the steady realization that the townsfolk don’t see the Herald similarly that gnaws at his throat. Sure, the Inquisition understand her as the Herald, but to the townsfolk, she’s just another one who was at the Conclave. _He’s_ the Commander - and with the Chancellor passed away, they were looking at him, relying on him.

 He watches the woman settle back down, two younger children coming to her. She speaks to them in low voices, and then - he can’t help but to stare - she undoes the fur around her neck, carefully draping it around her children. She gives them each a kiss, and then he tears his eyes away.

 Instead, they meet the Herald’s. She blinks once, her mahogany hair still pulled back into its usual updo. Hollowly, Cullen feels the urge to go to her side - but his fist clenches and he nods instead. She blinks once more, before returning the gesture shallowly, her eyes lingering just a moment longer before she turns to speak to her companions again.

 The night wears on, and soon the fires are extinguished. Cullen’s only vaguely aware that the night grows colder. Before he realizes it, he’s looking at the townsfolk again, huddled around each other, their thin shawls of warmth barely staying on their shoulders. It doesn’t take much longer for the rest of the Inquisition to call it a day, and soon they return to their tents. He himself had just returned to his own, and upon returning the quiet nod of goodnight to the Herald, he slips inside.

 His heart pounds and his head feels light, and this time, when he sleeps, the hollow husk of the freezing townswoman joins the growing list of horrors in his dreams.


	4. Chapter 4

 It’s fevered screaming that rouses Cullen this time.

His hands fly to his sword, cold hilt already poised in his battle-ready grasp. He sharpens his ears, listening for the sound of activity - bandits, animals, raiders - but it’s only when the possibilities narrow does he realize,with a cold sinking dread in the pit of his stomach, what it is.

The wailing voices belong to children.

The brink of dawn filters into Cullen’s gaze as he draws the tent flap aside. Already others are awake, though their expressions show a concern for the present, unlike him - where he’s sure they could see his night terrors set deep in his face. Weary, he rubs his eyes, as if it would erase any semblance of the night he’d had. As if it’d wipe away the surely purple bags that weighed under his irises, that it’d smoothen the creases of forehead and cool the beads of sweat that’d gathered on his brow.

There’s more activity now. More voices join the scuffle. Dread begins to filter into the pits of his stomach, and Cullen fears he already knows before he _sees_. Most of the townsfolk huddle in their small seclusion, all but a flurry of hands and soothing voices and overwhelming sympathy. He presses his way forward, their low mourning words already too loud to his ears.

The vague tugging of lyrium-song alerts him to her presence before she appears. Swishes of pelts and fabrics dust the ground, and he doesn’t need to turn to know the Herald of Andraste had crouched beside him. With a gentle yet firm grasp, her glowing green palm rests on the shoulder of whomever lay in front of her. Sad, mournful eyes reach hers, then stretch back to meet his own.

He blinks, then looks down.

Maker, the woman’s skin is white as sheet.

She could’ve easily been asleep. His blood chills and ice spikes at his throat, and then it recedes, leaving him red hot and burning with shame. It’s the same woman from yesterday, the one who’d begged for a fur. Suddenly his dreams take a darker meaning, a premonition, and he can only stare as her children continue to push against the dead woman’s arm.

Cullen suddenly realizes that, perhaps, he’s not the only one who had troubles sleeping last night.

Voices suddenly sharpen, refocus: immediately there’s demanding, hysterical crying.

_“- We’re not safe here -"_

_“- This is the same as Haven, if not worse -”_

_“- Rather have died fighting than from frostbite -”_

_“- She never told us, if I had known, if I had known -”_

Trevelyan’s abrupt standing silences the voices. A small bite of surprise hits Cullen as his eyes follow her dark mahogany ringlets swishing from the movement. “Townsfolk of Haven,” she says, her voice clear and underlined with subtle commanding, “I beseech you, please lend your ears.”

He’s not sure if it’s fear, respect, or something else that causes the townsfolk to quiet. But they do, and quickly, not even a hush befalling the crowd. Surely, he can understand why - when Sol Trevelyan drew herself to full height, she wasn’t much shorter than him. Her voice, too, normally a quieter, subdued soprano, was now fuller, larger. Her blue eyes flashed and steeled, watching over them as if she were the Empress of Orlais, with the same grace and silent authority he’d expect in a ruler - a leader.

“I am very, gravely sorry, for what has transpired.” Her eyes sweep once in a very deliberate fashion, before settling on the children who were closest to her. “I want to say that these things happen - but that is not the case. It is my fault - the Inquisition’s fault - that this has happened to you. Had we not been here, this tragedy would have never transpired.

“However, this is the path we walk now. And we must do this united, as one.” Her voice takes a double meaning, and for a brief moment, her eyes flash to his. Cullen gives a small nod. For a second, warmth flares in her gaze. “I cannot promise what will happen, where we will go. But we will go _together._ This lady’s sacrifice will not be forgotten; we will gather, we will fight, and we will _thrive._ ”

The silence that follows is certainly stunned; it takes two seconds before clapping begins. It’s small, and it doesn’t catch completely, but he sees something that wasn’t there before.

Respect.

She was no longer the stranger who was only here for the Conclave, no longer the strange woman who brought an army to their small town of Haven. No longer the indomitable figure who’d celebrated amongst the soldiers who had moved in over their supposed victory, no longer the destroyer of their village that they were supposed to follow.

In a brief moment, sunlight breaks over the horizon, her head swathed in a warm, orangey bath, burning bright as the light forms a halo around her face. Her skin nearly _glows_. Her eyes sparkle. And for a long moment, Cullen wonders if he can see Andraste within her -- and he finally understands why she’s her Herald.

His breath comes in as a gasp as she sags, stepping away from the circle before creeping over to his side. When she speaks, she loses her edge, and he’s suddenly torn away from the imagery of it all. Beneath everything, she was still _Trevelyan._ A sudden surge of embarrassment floods over him, and Cullen swallows through the lump that swells at his throat. The thought dances to the backburners of his mind as her voice cuts into his thoughts. A simple _Maker’s Breath,_ and he can’t help but to grin.

“That was inspiring,” he offers. She snaps up to him, and for a moment, flush colour invades his cheeks.

“I think I should delegate those speeches to you, Commander.” How strange it is, for her voice to now be respectful, whereas not heartbeats before she demanded it instead.

Cullen feels a grin playing at his lips. “Nonsense, I couldn’t have put what you said any better,” he says, and he’s aware of the modesty that colours his tone. Her expression changes minutely; her eyebrows raise and he can see her swallow. She chews on his words for a few moments longer.

“If you truly think so, then thank you.”

_Maker, her smile._

She doesn’t need the sunlight, the natural halo, to make her appear so illuminating. She dips her head, and he can’t help but to watch as her mahogany hair slips off her shoulders, spilling around her head like a frame. And then she straightens, her smile still on her lips, and she may have hung around a moment longer, were it not for the sudden call for breakfast. 

* * *

The whispers are gone. No more is the hushed questioning of loyalty, no more challenges to her authority. To the Herald’s credit, she stops them all earlier than last time. Whereas he sees some of the townsfolk sag with relief, Cullen would rather keep going. With the morning having come and gone, and having nothing but the sound of his own thoughts and the rhythms of his steps as company, it’d managed to block it out - the quiet yet insistent singing that rang through his very bones. Stopping, however, made him more anxious - moving was rhythmic. Not moving made it worse. 

But he bites in the inside of his cheek as she slides off her horse, landing lithely on her feet as her companions follow the motion. He hears brief complaining from the other elf, Sera, something about _making more distance_ but she’s hushed by Madame Le Fer. The elf shoots the Orlesian a withering look before slunking off with the Grey Warden -- Cullen barely manages to swallow his smirk before he averts his attention back to the approaching Herald.

“Hunting parties,” she says, and her voice is suddenly confident again. Not like their earlier conversation, to which Cullen realizes he has the privilege of belonging to only the two of them. “Do you mind organizing them?”

“Not at all,” he finds himself responding. If anything, at least executing orders still is a help. She nods again before striding off, and he realizes numbly that she heads straight towards the townsfolk. Behind him, he notices the other companions’ arms swathed with blankets. Now, he _truly_ allows himself to smile -- the Herald was certainly a fine leader.

Food is cooking and is distributed not too long afterward. Cullen barely lowers his makeshift bowl of soup before he notices her stand. For a second, something like doubt crosses her features, and then she steels herself, raising her voice.

“I’d like to call attention to our chores, and to begin organizing a sturdy rotation.” Not just the soldiers, but the townsfolk turn too. Something akin to pride swells in Cullen’s chest, which he can only address by taking a drought of vegetable broth. “Hunting parties,” she says, her voice now unwavering, “will be divided accordingly. Patrols will be taken in shifts - breakfast, lunch, dinner. Those who hunted today, please stand and group into your patrols.” She gestures to her side, and a few of her companions stand accordingly - Solas, Cole, Sera, and Bull mingle into the group of steadily rising soldiers, congregating into smaller groups.

“She’s doing a good job, isn’t she?”

Lady Nightingale’s voice disrupts his quiet stare. The Spymaster isn’t watching him, however, instead keeping her eyes transfixed on the Herald. Cullen swallows, catching a pieces of hair before moving it off his face. “She is.”

“A natural leader,” continues Leliana.

Cullen’s only response is to nod.

* * *

Twilight has just begun to settle before the Herald raises her hand. All movement ceases immediately, and a small murmuring sweeps through the crowd. But then, as one, the companions move - he watches as Warden Blackwall approaches the men who were to his side, watches as Dorian joins the mages, and just like that, the traveling group dissolves into smaller divisions. Cullen watches with almost a silent fascination as the camp springs to life before his very eyes. She is _truly_ remarkable, he thinks, and she’s so modest about it, too.

And then a hand flies to the back of his neck - he, too, has his own duties. With the sudden influx of magic, he’s all too aware of how he stands, how his body reacts to it all. So Cullen takes the opportunity to leave, exchanging a nod with Leliana and Lady Montilyet, averting Cassandra’s gaze as he weaves his way back to a further corner of camp.

He ducks into his tent, thankfully pitched by the time he arrives there. Already his temporary belongings reside inside, along with rations of food for the eve as Cullen lowers himself to the floor. Almost immediately, a wave of weakness hits him - and he knows where it’s from, too. The nearly comforting pull of Lyrium, the sudden absence of it, the fact he’s _sitting,_ like an admission of defeat; he groans into his hands. His temples throbs and his hands grow numb, and for a moment he thinks he may pass out.

For a brief moment, Cassandra passes in his mind. _Many_ things pass through his mind. One of which is her smiling face, and it only makes it hurt more.

It suddenly recedes, as if the Lyrium had somehow admitted that he’d had enough for one night, and yet he’s panting and clammy. Cullen doesn’t know how much time has passed since he’d been cradling his head. But then his eyes loom over the papers he’d have to fill, the files on patrols that surely should be recorded for future reference.

His eyes roll over to the unlit candle that stays in the corner of his tent. For a brief, crazy second, he wonders if it’ll ignite from his mere sight. When it doesn’t, he sighs and strikes a match. The inside of his tent illuminates in the warmish glow of amber and orange. His vision blurs and the papers seem like they are fuzzy with black ink, before it resharpens before his very eyes. His lips brush against the top of his mouth, coating each crevice with a tinge of saliva, before he settles his attention back to the papers in hand.

To work, then.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lots of Angst here. Warning for withdrawal symptoms. I don't have much to base it off of personally, so it may be a little off. Please let me know what you think.

Cullen’s feet _ache_. They hadn’t ached since he made the long trip to Kirkwall, the long walk there not so dissimilar from now. This time, the soles of his shoes are tighter, and he _knows_ the world a bit better now.  He knows now to prepare for the cold, knows that his basic furs are warm enough for the trek. In his solitude of thought, he’d mainly been reminded of the time he wore his Templar armour with pride. _Like a shield,_ he thinks briefly, as if it could save him from all the horrors he’d have to witness. A spike of resentment shoots through him, leaving hot sparks along his spine. His vision clouds and his throat _throbs_ but he shakes his head, and the fuzziness and dull thrums deep within him dissipates. The white snow refocuses underneath his feet. He remembers scratchy wooden planks that nipped at his legs, remembers the sickly sway of the boat he’d sat in on the way to Kirkwall. At least now, there’s solid ground beneath him, no rotting wood around him. Cold, clear air – every inhale comes with a touch of desperation, chasing away the lingering distortion around the edges of his peripherals.

Cullen exhales noisily.

A hand flies to his temples. The gentle pressure behind his fingers ease away the tension set deep in his skin. He barely realizes that someone’s speaking. “What?” he says, rather unceremoniously.

Lady Montilyet blinks. “Are you okay?”

“I-Yes,” _Maker,_ he’s tripping over his words. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Her expression shifts; her eyebrows knit upward and her lip quirks. “The Herald had stopped, and you looked like you might walk into someone.”

“Oh,” is all he manages. Clearly, the Antivan isn’t convinced. She shifts her weight from one hip to another, before shaking her head briefly. With an elegant twirl, she weaves her way through the crowd, surely to where the Spymaster resides.

He lets the remnants of his breath loose, deciding that he’d much rather have the pressure of his brief, indulgent massage, than the burden of dwelling on their curt exchange.

But the headache remains throughout evening, even after each group of travellers disperse to their nightly chores. Two days later, and the system is nearly scary efficient. For a brief few moments, Cullen entertains the thought of telling Cassandra that his replacement, _when_ he needs it (she’d surely narrow her eyes at that), should be none other than the Herald herself.

Then a ragtag group of soldiers who were off for the night come to _him,_ and not _her_ , and it’s only after he orders them to join the hunting and scavenging parties does he really realize that, once again, the responsibility truly falls on his shoulders.

He’s not sure if it’s the realization that adds to the mounting headache. The surge of fires around him, whether from natural causes or the lyrium kind, does nothing to the dull throbs. The flashes of light in his irises only seem to be playing with the rhythms of aching pain, a dangerous tango of rhythm that threatened to end in explosions behind his eyes.

All he can think about, after he’d tried nibbling on some rabbit but finding the taste nothing but vile when it isn’t something much more blue and much more liquid, is his bed. His bed, that should already be warmed by the small lantern in his tent, with a pile of furs waiting to be draped over his body to be drenched in sweat the next morning. His bed, and not the quiet swansong of lyrium, the thrum that pulls him so, that he can feel it from the camp, from the fire, from the small swathe of mages in the corner, from the insides of _her cheeks –_

Cullen stands abruptly.

“I’m going to bed,” he says to no one in particular, though it is the Spymaster and the Seeker who turn to each other first. But he ignores that, and instead tries to focus on his feet, the orange-tinged snow that reflected the fire that was ironically supposed to bring salvation, and not on the other parts of his body that whispered at him to turn around. He hates it, he hates it, _he hates it._

He ducks into his tent. Even his Maker-be-damned _lantern_ has the hollow song of lyrium emanating from it; clearly lit by magic, burning through the remains of whatever spell whichever Andraste-damned mage had lit it. It doesn’t take long for him to wrench the thing open, for his hand to hesitate, for the tips of his fingers to tingle at the _promise of lyrium, so close, so close –_ and he snatches the flame, the relieving burn of his palm solace within the sudden darkness.

It’s after Cullen’s on his bedroll does his hand finally begins to throb. It only joins the rest of his body, hollow and sweaty, and he doesn’t realize he’s heaving for breaths. His pulse is too loud, his body is _throbbing,_ and he needs water. Maker, he _needs_ water.

He all but tosses the sheets aside. There’s still activity outside, a small swell of sound that barely reaches his ears. Instead, he heads straight for the nearest jug, thankful for whatever liquid pours from its lip into his waterskin. He raises it to his mouth, all too aware of how the half-frozen liquid sloshes in the skin, his hands trembling slightly from the effort.

_Relief._

The first breath he takes after setting down the flask is even moreso.

He pours himself another just in case, grasping the skin carefully. Surely, most of the camp has quieted; only small conversations linger, a few tasks here and there still dutifully being fulfilled by a select few groups. Mahogany hair catches his attention as he treads back to his tent, and he’s starting to mildly resent the fact that he can pick it out so easily.

Her face is screwed up in concentration, her nose wrinkled and her delicate, mage-y hands occupied with something that wasn’t her trademark oak staff.

“Herald.” She nearly jumps, and a small curse flies from her mouth before she stabs herself with – _a needle_ , he notes. And then he realizes what she’s doing. “You’re-“

“Mending shoes,” she finishes for him, and her voice is somehow back to normal, though Cullen thinks he can detect a small tremor. “Some of them have snapped.” She nudges her chin towards the miniature pile placed in the middle, where a couple other townswomen are busy at work sewing along with her.

They stand there for moments longer, in the shadow of the dying fires as she sews, and he watches as her delicate teeth sink into the soft flesh of her lip. How the small muscles in her arm roll at the motions. It’s easy to focus on her, he realizes, than stagnant environment. Than the aches and throbs within him. So much easier to focus on her than the _singing_.

Her voice rouses him from his thoughts. “Is that water?”

“Hm?” Cullen lifts the weighty skin, the muted sloshing of fluids inside all but a confirmation. “It is.”

A small smile spreads on her lips, just a tiny quirk on the corner of her mouth, but before any teeth show her face is deadset back on her handiwork; Cullen realizes that he might actually be blushing.

He’s all too aware of the sudden burning of his more injured hand. Transferring the waterskin into his other hand, the cold soothes away the worst of it though it doesn’t take away the throbbing behind his cheeks. Maker, he’s slowly growing incapable of discerning what the _cause_ of it all really is. And he realizes he doesn’t care. _He doesn’t care._ He just needs a distraction – and with her just a few paces away from him, her face so enraptured in concentration -

“I didn’t know you sewed,” he attempts.

For a second, brilliant flush reaches her cheeks. And then it’s gone, and Cullen wonders if he imagined it all to begin with.  Her fingers seem to steel, and the next pierce she makes into the leather is precise. “I’ve learned a lot of the housekeeping chores at the Circle, and then my house before that,” she says offhandedly.

 _House Trevelyan._ Cullen didn’t know much about the nobility of the Free Marches.  He did, however, know from his background searches of her, that she wasn’t the eldest. It didn’t matter anyways. “I wasn’t going to comment.”

“Oh.” The needle hovers from its target. “Well, now you know.” She pauses, before locking her brilliantly icy gaze onto him.  “I suppose I never did give back to the town that housed me, us, while we were using it. It’s unfair this happened to them. This is the least I can do.” Her eyes seem to gloss over, her hands only working through muscle memory. Weaving, pushing, pulling – just the motion itself is enrapturing, the steady and repetitive motion somehow mildly soothing the pain in his head. Cullen breathes.

“That’s very noble of you.”

She scrunches her nose at that. “More like the _right_. It’s a pity I never learned how to do these by magic,” she says as she shakes the completed shoe with the tips of her fingers, before setting it aside. “Something about a _flick_ , but more precise; it was kind of funny actually – like we’d _leave_ the circle, and not be considered apostates, hunted by-“

The Herald suddenly stiffened. “- Oh, Andraste’s _tits_ , I’d forgotten you were a Templar.”

The words tumble out of her mouth, sloppy and sheepish.  He’d never pegged the Herald to be a rambler, but her sentences come in broken fragments. And the swear might’ve been mildly endearing, if it weren’t for the fact that just that much manages to send fire thrilling through his veins, and though he’d like to acredit it all to the lyrium, he knows deep down it’s in part something else. Cullen doesn’t trust himself enough to speak, only waving once. Maker, even the sensation feels like ice shooting from his fingertips, and he fears that any moment beside her any longer, he may _explode._

The fire, the mages, the magic, _her._ He can definitely pinpoint it now- the reason why he could focus so _easily_ on her. Because she was singing with lyrium, because she must’ve taken some earlier – that when he thought he was doing something good, he was only falling back into old habits. Maker, now that he was aware, he can all but _hear_ the singing, loud in his ears, threatening to overwhelm him.

He grips his belt, the waterskin – his sword remains back in his tent, familiar curves of the hilt lost on his nearly spastic fingers.

“I should go,” he barely manages to croak. Her attention flies to him; the needle is all but limp and forgotten, dangling from her fingertips, and she looks like she might apologize, but even that is too much. It _hurts_ and it _burns_ and he rips his eyes away – but not before he hears a fevered yelp, followed by loud cusses.

She moves so fast that any other soldier may have missed it, but the swishing of her robe – and admittedly, the telltale pull of lyrium – tells him that the Herald is on her feet, staff at the ready. In a strange synchronicity only battle-worn fighters could know, they make their way side by side to the source of the sound. Yet his strides do nothing to dull his pain; he only manages to focus on the sudden voices to stop him from doing something irrational from the pure _lyrium_ she eradiated.

Cullen feels the heat before he sees it, the orangey glow no longer a blessing but the source of terror. Panic licks at his throat – and he remembers the explosions, the burning, the _death –_ twice now, when he smelled the acrid burning of flesh amongst charred bodies, still smoking, mouths open in horror, holes where eyes should be -

A blast of cold cuts into his brain, the image of burned shells once human marring and fuzzing in his mind. The Herald lifts her staff, twirling it once. He takes a slow breath. “Where’s the Grand Enchanter?” Even his voice sounds disembodied, echoing as if someone else had spoken the words.

“I don’t know – probably in there,” the Herald responds. And then, in a rush of fearlessness so _classic_ of her, she plucks her staff and strides right into the crowd. Cullen nearly gasps; as her mahogany ponytail streams behind her, suddenly the tranquil image of her shatters. She’s not Lady Trevelyan, sewing shoes. She’s the _Herald._ And she was turning around again, striding into danger without a _thought for herself._

His breath catches.

It’s not happening again.

His mind screams at him otherwise – his fingers itch and he feels lightheaded; the song of lyrium so strong from the mages that surround the area, jolting and spiking with effort to contain the growing fire.

_Maker’s hairy balls._

His headache roars and his head might split open, but he forces his legs to move. The mages part once more, muttered words and dull thunking of staves surround him, but he focuses forward – toward the mahogany hair, toward _her._

And then he spots the Grand Enchanter, her hands glowing a sickly teal while hovering over an individual. She seems to sense his presence. “Commander.” Even her address is more of a fog in his ears. “I apologize – this apprentice, he –“

 _Andraste,_ he can _feel_ it coming from the man. He squints, willing the picture to just _focus_ in his eyes. He can see deep welts scored across his skin, red oozing from within. Breaths feather from his lips, growing shallower by the second. When the Grand Enchanter waves her hand over each wound, his skin seems to knit together – but each motion makes his _own_ head spin. “Will he be okay?”

He bites through his words and he knows it. The Enchanter’s head swivels almost dangerously, her hair whipping the sides of her cheek from the momentum. “I think so. I can get others on him. We need to contain the fire.”

They skirt around the obvious subject, the fact that the magic, though perhaps not intentional, could lead to much more severe consequences. Cullen shakes his head – it’s in these _worse_ moments that Meredith’s face flashes in his mind, and it just makes the self-reflective pit of hatred bubble in his stomach. He stands after he forces himself to nod, pivoting on the balls of his feet. 

By now, several more of the camp has joined them. It doesn’t take much for the Herald’s mage companions to join in; Madame De Fer and Dorian waste no time in raising their own staves. Solas erects several barriers around the more wounded who dot around camp, with Blackwall and Bull helping the other soldiers in removing those in the vicinity. Sera dances a small dance of panic to the side. And then his eyes find the rest of the advisors.

“Move the burned to the medical tents – clear the paths!” He orders. Leliana and Cassandra nod together, weaving through the chaos.

“And the Herald?” Is Josephine’s cry cutting through the noise. He tries to ignore the panic that thuds in his chest as he inclines his head back to the fires. The Antivan seems ready to chastise, but she bites the inside of her cheek and nods, moving back to the main areas of camp.

Cullen sucks a breath, but the ashy inhale does nothing to soothe his nerves. _Maker help me_ , he thinks as he pushes himself back into the crowd. 

A line of mages stand in front of the fire – and briefly he imagines the fire roar, enveloping them, enveloping the _Herald_ , charring their skin to black, their screams caught half into their throats – but the image disappears when he sees what’s happening. Half barriers, half blasts of cold, it’s almost like they’re dancing, twirling their staves in synchronicity, bolts of blue and white and gold erupting from the pointed ends. Only two seem out of the rhythm – Dorian, for one, who adds several other flourishes in his movements, and of course, Lady Trevelyan.

He barely manages to take a step toward her before he suddenly feels himself hurtling backwards. The same wave of gut-lurching nausea hits him before he can catch his step, the familiar aftereffects of a Mind Blast still swimming in his mind. He feels his Spell Purges gather behind his palms, a rush of liquid power that somehow felt hollow without lyrium, a knee-jerk reaction to being confronted directlywith magic.

His head pounds as the Mind Blast finally recedes. He really shouldn’t be here. He really, _really_ , shouldn’t be here.

“Stay back!” The Herald cries, her voice barely discernable in the sudden throes of his mind. And then she slams her staff back down, a particularly vicious blue bolt erupting from the oak tip. She groans from the effort, staggering against her staff like a crutch. Sweat clings her hair to her head, covering her skin in a cold sheen, and she barely manages to straighten; he sees her fingers scrabble into the underside of her robe.

_Oh._

He turns away but he hears it anyways – the _siren song_. He can almost imagine the rush of cool liquid down his throat, soothing the fires, fixing all the problems, making the mounting headache go away, caressing his head, peppering kisses along his brow. As if it’s _him_ drinking the lyrium, and not her.

He nearly shreds a hole into the hem of his shirt.

He doesn’t know how long he stands there, his hands balled into his sides, nails digging into his flesh. Activity swirls around him, the bolts of magic like splashes of fireworks, and as much as he wills himself to join the rescuing and evacuations, he can’t bring his legs to move. Part of it is due to how the thrums of lyrium seem to soothe the pain, just a _little_ , another is because he’s still somewhat _scared_ of the flames. And another part, a part that is larger than he’d like to admit, is due to the guilt he feels at leaving her to fend for them, once again.

Slowly, surely, the waves of heat lessen, then die out completely. Blackened trees, that seem as if they’d crumble if even the slightest pressure is placed on them, stand scattered around them. The earth is scored with deeply dark marks, all traces of snow gone. With a flick of her wrists, Madame De Fer stamps out the last lick of fire with a blast of cold air.

The singing stops.  With it, the thrall cuts short. And shame – deeply rooted, overwhelming _shame –_ threatens to overtake him, to make tears of anger and frustration spill from his eyes, to truly pierce himself with his nails should he continue clutching to himself as hard as he could.

Maker, he was so _stupid._

She approaches him then, and he can barely note her ashen visage - her skin rubbed with black and her eyes tired, her shoulders sagging, and there’s concern – _concern –_ on her face. As if he didn’t need another reason to hate himself. 

“You’re still here.”

The pressure in his left, burned hand begins to jump at him. He swallows. Sudden fear spikes at him – fear for _what,_ he doesn’t _know –_ as one of her delicate, though tautly-stretched fingers reach for his.

He wrenches his hand away.

“I thought you had tighter control of the mages.” 

The words come out of him, white-hot and scathing, and the sudden _offense_ that mars her face almost makes him take back his words. Each passing beat was becoming an increasingly agitated pound at his temples, each second without the sweet tease of lyrium that much _worse._

“The mages answer to the Grand Enchanter and not I, _Commander.”_ Each word she utters is clipped, controlled. It only drives him forward, what with the pounding in his head. 

 “This shouldn’t have happened,” he continues, struggling to maintain any semblance of control in his voice. 

Her chin jolts upward, ice blue eyes flashing. “It won’t happen again. I assure you.” 

Even her breath _smells_ of lyrium. _Maker- Andraste- Fuck,_ he snarls in his mind, but each profanity doesn’t nearly encompass the anger, desperation, _shame_ he feels. 

He wants to punch something. A tree, himself, and for a scary, irrational second – _her._

“Make sure it doesn’t. And really? You needed to take lyrium?”

She draws herself up to full height at that. For the first time – even when dealing with the Chancellor, after being sent to deal with _petty_ business like farms in the Hinterlands, true emotion spark behind the normally polite demeanour of hers. “Yes _, I needed to take_ _lyrium._ You’re a Templar, you should know these things.” She barrels onward, but it doesn’t stop each stab that her words leave behind, making his fists curl further, this time _surely_ drawing blood; doesn’t stop the ice cold that spreads further through his body. “And I was _going to use that_ _lyrium_ to heal your hand. It’s burned, isn’t it?”

 _Not from this,_ he thinks, but he shoves his fist into his trousers in response. “It’ll heal,” he says stiffly.

“Then forget I asked.”

Her words are loud, nearly _snarled,_ and quite a few heads turn to their direction. Red hot flames burn at his cheeks, so much more painful than the duller swell of heat the wildfire had left. It prickles and stings, leaving deep stings in his face, and he pushes his lips together to stop his mouth from falling open. He thinks there may be blood down his right hand, and he can’t even _feel_ his left, but he doesn’t care.

She swivels on her heel and walks away, and he gladly does the same.


	6. Chapter 6

A day passes, then another. Cullen hadn’t spoken to the Herald since. He’d _meant_ to, truly, he did – but nine times of ten, he tore his eyes away before she could even turn towards him. _Emotion_ had burned behind his ears, a combination of shame, residual anger, and _embarrassment._ Cullen was never very good at apologies; apparently, he’d rather be deported. But the one time their gazes _did_ meet, her blue eyes seemed to explore the depths of his soul, and then she’d be the first one to look away.

Maybe she was waiting, expectant, or just not _willing –_ Maker, he didn’t know.

All he knew was that his heartbeat would race, saliva would coat his tongue, and his hands would twitch and wring, and he knew it had nothing to do with the lyrium withdrawal. If anything, that had gotten pretty good. Ironic that his physical state mended at the expense of his mental one. And there was his first mistake: if he knew he’d _cared_ so much, maybe he wouldn’t have let his mouth run off when it did.

There was no use in wallowing, though. Cullen tosses the remnants of his meal into the designated food scrap ditch, careful to avoid agitating his left hand. The burn from when he’d snuffed out the magic-fueled fire left deep enough scarring into his skin, the area a lovely shade of purple. Looking at the blistering wound only stirs more shame in his stomach. Instead, he carefully tucks his fingers around the afflicted area, opting to place his fist back into the pocket of his trousers.

It’s only then that another Inquisition soldier, clad in the soon-becoming trademark silverite armour and bronto leathers, approaches him. “Rylen,” Cullen greets. His second-in-command nods in response, his eyes flitting from one person to another.

“Commander,” says the other Ex-Templar. “The patrol has been called. You’ve been assigned to it.” _I have?_ Cullen’s glad he didn’t voice his confusion, as Rylen’s eyebrow raises. “You _were_ aware of the Herald’s changes, right?”

_Maker, what did that woman do?_

The nervous flitting returns in onslaught, his hands feeling both cold and hot at the same time. Cullen sucks in a breath, rubbing at his neck if only to regain some sensation in that area of his body. He glances at the Herald; this time he _does_ catch her mid-glance, but she merely blinks icily back at him. _Andraste help me._

Her glare elicited the same reaction as one he’d forgotten from his childhood: the strange, boyish guilt whenever Mia glared and scolded him. His spine had erupted into chills and he fumbles with his hands, before eventually opting to stuff them further into his trousers.  Not like he had much of a choice. He hears a faint chuckle to the side and he decides to pointedly ignore the Spymaster, trying not to see how she leaned over to whisper to Josephine.

He swallows down the butterflies that threaten to overturn his stomach. He’s so _nervous_ about this, and he doesn’t quite understand why. Several parts of him just goads him to _apologize already._ But as soon as he faces her – and the Iron Bull, Solas, and Dorian, who all watch him with an oddly scrutinizing eye - Cullen swallows. Were her accompanying selections deliberate? There’s a tinge of what he could only discern as protectiveness in the Qunari’s eyes, and there’s nothing in the Apostate’s eyes at all. At least Dorian surveys him with a shred of sympathy, but it doesn’t seem to reach the rest of him. Cullen sucks in another breath. This may be the end of him.

The first five minutes or so aren’t too torturous. As her companions one by one split from their group, Cullen’s discomfort only grew tenfold. Bull, first, nodding briefly before he and the Chargers split to the left, Solas who wordlessly leads the mages in silent bid without as much as a blink. Finally, Dorian, who dips his head deeply to the Herald and catches Cullen’s eye as he rises, with Rylen. Cullen swallows; the Tevinter seems to either say “good luck” or “you’re doomed”, either way the ex-Templar looks away before he can decide which it is.

And so it remains the two of them. His hand plays with the few stray hairs at his neck – Cullen’s suddenly aware that his hair is unruly and he can’t quite recall the last time he’s _shaved_ , each calloused finger twining around overgrown strands of his own locks in a frantic rhythm of twisting and untwisting. What is she even _thinking_? Her eyes remain fixed ahead of her, her figure stiff, shoulders square. For once, the camp and surrounding perimeter is still, not a single breeze to fill the gaping silence, save the gentle swirl that blew past them. Her hair picks up with it, gentle ringlets moving in suspended animation – like it’s in water – before falling back into place against his neck.

_Maker._

The sing of lyrium is no longer as powerful as it once was, but maybe it’s his fault. For staring at the curve of her neck, observing the colour of her ivory skin, makes his blood _sing._ A different tune from lyrium, one that warms his heart instead of leaving him cold.

She halts; Cullen nearly stumbles into her frame.

And then she turns around, her blue eyes surprisingly close to his. They’re flickering and warm and so _deep_   and he can’t but to associate the colour with the blue in his dreams – but they narrow. Her lips draw in before she exhales.

“You’ve been avoiding me as if I’m, I don’t know, a Blood Mage,” the Herald says almost accusingly. His hand freezes, and Cullen’s all too aware of the way his palm presses against his neck. She blinks at him before dropping her gaze. The ground around them is still, only the quiet rustling of a nearby bush noise in the sudden, deafening silence. Then she seems to steel her resolve, her eyes sharp and almost challenging. “Look, if it’s about the other night, I’m not taking it back.”

A sudden feral growl saves Cullen from having to respond. He whirls around, but not before a large _something_ leaps at him from the undergrowth. He hears her swear and his fingers begin to _vibrate;_ a sudden bolt of energy makes the animal squeal, but not before another joins it.

It’s a familiar procedure at this point. His sword is already nestled into his hand, and he doesn’t need to look to know her oak staff is already in her clutches. Energy fizzes at his fingertips, the same, icy, almost electrifying anticipation he’s used to when in the presence of magic. Cullen feels the power soak his blade before slashing forward once. He knows he hits the mark as he feels the warm splash of blood against his wrist. The large animal – easily twice the size of any mabari – recoils, but it lunges forward once more. He fends off the block, wincing as he feels it tear at his side, but he pivots back, scoring deeply against its muzzle.

“What in – the _hell –_ are these things?!” He barely hears, partially marred from the sudden feral growls that seem to surround him, but mostly from the telltale zaps and thuds as the Herald spins her staff again and again. Cullen’s not too sure himself – not _wolves_ , that’s for sure – and he hears more hissing and cursing and _spitting,_ and then silence.

Cullen nearly jumps as he feels warmth by his back; he forces himself to relax minutely as he recognizes it as her own. “They’re fast,” he mutters. He can see from his peripherals as reds fleck the snowy ground, and he feels her ponytailed ringlets bob up and down against his neck.

“Don’t move,” she whispers as she slams down her staff. Ice blue erupts around him, over his vision, thankfully not distracting. Cullen spares a few seconds to look down: it’s as if his entire body is cloaked in blue, waving like rippling water in an odd bubble around his form. He swallows. If there’s anything the Barrier is good for, it’s the fact that his blood seems to boil in anticipation and retaliation.

His eyes snap back up as he spots movement – lightning fast, a blur of deep mahogany. Cullen twirls his sword absentmindedly, gripping the hilt until it nearly _burns_ into his grasp. And then it leaps out – saliva flinging from its mouth as it _snarls_ and its beady black eyes train on him – and Cullen doesn’t hesitate as he slashes forward, feeling more red splash against his cheek. He thrusts once, driving his blade as deep as he can against its skull, and he pulls it out, kicking the sudden limp form and hearing a sickly satisfying _crunch_ under the heel of his boot. Cullen draws his blade, the unmoving beast a mass of deeply red fur.

A cry catches his attention; the Herald’s backed against a tree. Her side bleeds languidly but her eyes flash. A similar beast approaches her, its teeth pulled back into a snarl. Cullen doesn’t think twice – with as much energy as he can muster, he barrels into the side of the monster. He digs his shoulder as far into the pelt of the beast as he can, and he barely moves away before another Mind Blast nearly bowls him over.

He turns to her, and she’s _furious._ Fire cloaks her fingers – and for a second, he imagines her fingers singeing, and his own burned hand throbs in response – before she gives one, firm shake. And a very inhuman _shriek_ rips from the creature as it ignites, the smell of burning pelts and flesh suddenly acrid in his nose.

“Commander!” Cullen whirls at the new voice, and he sees Rylen jogging into the clearing. “Our patrol ran into Red Lions.” The doubletake the ex Templar makes is nearly comical, as he soaks in the bloodied ground, the disheveled states of both him and the Herald, and the still burning corpse just a few feet away.

“Careful, Sir Rylen,” Cullen adds unnecessarily. “Are your men alright?”

He nods shallowly. “We’ve heard rumours, of course, the Townsfolk could probably tell you more. They’re hunters. We may have camped in their territories.”

“How many?” Ah, there she is again. And she saddles up to them, that same _authority_ exuding from her in heaves, an odd commanding presence that’s somehow _reassuring_ to him.

Rylen shrugs. “We may have encountered four. Certainly no less than two. They sent me here. One of the townsmen, Dwaine, said-“

Cullen saw it before it happened – the similarly large shape in the shadow, the same rustling of undergrowth – and he knew she saw it too, for her grip tightened against her staff mid-sentence of Rylen, and the other man barely seems to realize the threat before a bolt of blue shoots from the pointed end, grazing his shoulder but connecting squarely into the Red Lion behind him.

“Move,” Cullen says gruffly, and Rylen doesn’t think twice. Cullen barely registers how Rylen struggles to produce his sword, swearing at his exposed and frostbitten arm. The Herald flashes him an apologetic look, but it’s all she can afford before she turns back around.

“- Did he say they stalk stragglers?”

“Something to that effect,” Rylen spits, and then he winces. “Commander.”

“Rest, Rylen,” Cullen hisses, and he senses the man sag behind him. Cullen pivots on his foot and steps around him, keeping the wounded man in the middle. The beast had melted into the background again, though now the too still forest was a bad omen than a boon.

The silence settles and they hold their positions several moments longer, each passing second adding to the thudding in his chest. Cullen vaguely wonders if it’s largely in part of the Herald’s joint anticipation. Every moment is simply the time for her magic to gather, for his own abilities to retaliate, and for his temples to throb again, dully, languidly, like he’s underwater.

He swallows.

And there’s another flash of movement, lightning fast – bolting towards Rylen between them. He twists around, meeting the creature halfway. His blade sinks right into its underbelly, scoring against the softer flesh as it yelps – he catches the Herald’s eye and withdraws his sword. One blink later and it gets sent flying backwards, and, with a flick, it too lights ablaze.

They stand there for a few moments, watching the fire twitch and dance in earnest, before Rylen straightens from the corner of his eye. “Commander – Herald, thank you,” he says.

Trevelyan blinks and reaches forward. Cullen watches, nearly mesmerized, as her fingers stretch towards the man’s. Slim digits curl around his wrist, her index finger bracing against his forearm, and she pulls him towards her. Her ringlets slide off her shoulders, bouncing weightlessly as she stares into the wound she caused. It takes not a second before her other hand cloaks into a sickly teal, sickly only from association, for the man does nothing but shudder a sigh as she waves her palms over the blisters.

“I’m sorry,” she says cordially. Rylen only shakes his head. Cullen can see the man’s hand fist – and for a brief second, he’s at least relieved to know that it is not just he who felt the same knee-jerk reaction to magic – but then it unfists, and the man breathes a sigh.

“I must go see to the other men,” says Rylen, nodding at the Commander. Then he turns to the Herald. “And thank you.”

“Don’t thank me,” she says, nearly mechanically, and Rylen adds nothing further as he walks back into the foliage.

Cullen’s feet pull to move him, but his heart tells him to stay. He’s not quite sure why – his blood is still pounding behind his temples and he can still _feel_ the magic at her fingertips – but when she turns to him, he doesn’t know why he does it. He doesn’t know why his left hand lifts, why he doesn’t protest as she begins to wave her same hand over his charred skin.

The sensation is odd at first. Cold and hot at the same time, he can’t quite place it – but he knows his skin is plumping. Rehydrating, as he feels his skin flourish and expand. What feels like ice begins to dart up and down his arm, and he feels locked energy drain, strand by strand, from his fingers, reserves of what he can only describe as magic he never noticed before exiting his hand in waves. Briefly, Cullen wonders if this oddly exhilarating feeling is what mages felt regularly – he glanced to her face, only to see her eyes narrowed, teeth biting the inside of her cheek as she concentrated. The glow of her restoration magic bathed her skin in an odd tinge of green, but he couldn’t - for the life of him - find the change sickly or revolting.

It’s several moments later that her hands fall away. He, too, drops his restored hand.

“Thank you.”

She chews on his words before responding.

“You’re welcome.”

* * *

They don’t speak much more after – the time for words had come and gone, at least for tonight. As they walk, Cullen’s glad that he doesn’t feel nearly as uncomfortable as he had. As they met up with the rest of patrols, it was soon very evident that they _were_ attacked by a pack of Red Lions. With more than five injured, and two closer to the serious side, the medic tents would be full tonight – and that was without the usual sick or weak members of their travelling group.

It’s only when the camp begins to retire for the night that Cullen rouses from his pacing. The other advisors had since went into their own tents. The last of the fires are stoked as he walks towards the medic tent, and he doesn’t realize it before he nearly collides into the Herald.

She takes two steps backwards, blinking. Even in the fading light, her blue eyes were still vivid. In the next heartbeat, the last fire went out, and yet he could still trace her irises with his own.

“You’re visiting them, too?”

“Didn’t I tell you, I account for everyone at night?” Something like a half-hearted smile twitches at her lips, and Cullen could almost see the memory of their first night since Haven on her mind. He ignores the awkward half-thud his heart makes. “Why are _you_?”

For a moment, she’s quiet.  She doesn’t have words, Cullen realizes, but he can guess. _Because she feels bad. Because she feels guilty. Because she feels responsible._

Cullen shakes his head. “It is no more your fault, with the Red Lions, than it is not your fault that Haven fell.”

And he means it, too – for how could she, a Free Marcher, know anything about Red Lions, about the territories she’d lead the group in? How could she be held accountable to everything?

But looking at her downcast face, that’s _exactly_ how she felt – about herself. Her eyes turn dark and she chews her lip, and suddenly Cullen wonders if this was on her mind the whole time. It suddenly dawns on him how much this must’ve been eating at her, and he recalls those moments he can remember: the way she suddenly took charge, her silence as she mended piles of shoes, the absolute hurt as he, once more, put more blame on her shoulders…

“I’m sorry,” he all but mumbles, and he fears that she heard his voice snag.

When she responds, she does so observing the floor. “No, Commander. You’re right. It’s not my fault.” Even though she squares her shoulders, sucks a breath in an attempt to regain normalcy, to his eyes, it only makes her look more _tired._ “But I guess, since everyone’s been throwing the blame around, I guess it’s gotten to me. I know they don’t say it,” the Herald says quickly, “And maybe they don’t feel that way anymore. But it’s there. Even Chancellor Roderick.” 

“He forgave you in the end.”

She’s quiet, pensive; it may have been his imagination, but he hopes he’s the reason why her shoulders seem to relax, if only minutely.

They remain in silence several moments longer, and it’s in those moments of brevity that he finally summons the (courage?) will to finally word the thoughts that’s been in his mind.

“But I truly am sorry. For this. And for back then.”

Her eyes catch his. “Is there something troubling you?” 

 _That_ wasn’t what he expected. He’s prepared for anything else: for her to challenge him, for her to reassert the way that she had before. And yet now, she was oddly _concerned,_ and he hesitates. What can he say – what can he _answer_? Yes, he’s addled with lyrium withdrawal; yes, just being near her at times was unbearable; yes, he’s growing more and more unsure for the cause of said unbearable-ness; yes – yes- _yes?_

But it’s the softness of her touch, the sudden nurturing nature that reminds him so violently of Mia, that catches him off guard once again. Her fingers are like ice – his blood spikes and his breath catches, and her feather soft words are almost like caresses against his skin. “You can talk to me, you know?”

He wants to say that she’s spreading herself too thin, that she needs to take care of herself, that the bags under her eyes grew more pronounced with every passing day. He almost wants to hog her all to himself. Instead, he offers her a smile. “Of course, Herald.”

Her nose scrunches before she shrugs. “We’re stuck in this mess together, so if there’s anything- tell me. Or, not because we’re stuck together, but because we’re -”

“ - Friends?” he finished quietly.

She grins, fully this time. “I was going to say comrades. But I think friends suits us much better.”

And her smile is infectious, so much so that Cullen’s not sure if he’s grinning even more broadly. All he knows is that his cheeks hurt and his hands feel numb, and the overwhelming _relief_ falls away to what he can only describe as _homey._

But home was Fereldan soil and the smell of dog where she was wilderness and flowers, and Maker he can’t understand why his heartbeat picks up but if she can hear it, _if she can hear it,_ then maybe she, too, may suspect it’s not from lyrium.

 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay: school and the like. Enjoy!

Clashes of metal like symphonies erupt around him. The harmony line – a chorus of screams – underline the dotting rhythm, punctuated by occasional swears and cries of pain. Cullen stumbles blindly out of his tent, clutching a rib, armour half-fastened. Their camp is washed with red, stained deep in the snow, leathers, and the various bodies that littered the ground. Large mobile shadows flit in and out of focus, there one second then gone the next, and then it’s in front of him. Behind. Beside. Behind. In front. Behind beside in front behind _breathing down his neck._

He twists, sword clumsy, but he thrusts into nothingness, for the shadow no longer exists. A scream erupts behind him, where he was facing just moments ago, and he tries to turn, but he’s in water. Limbs in slow motion, the edges of his vision blurring, his hand throbbing, her name caught in his throat; he’s too late, he realizes, he’s too _late –_

From her neck pours liquid ice, fountains and fountains spewing unendingly, the ground turning to a chilling shade of purple. She falls to her knees, a shaking hand pressing upon her wound, but her fingers cloak in blue, impossibly viscous, the consistency like oil as it dribbles between each appendage, swallowing her limb.

Her face twists. For a second, her mahogany hair gathers into horns and her blue eyes turn black, her skin tints purple and her lips draw back into a knowing smirk. Then it’s her again, her eyes going hollow. A bubble of blue wells and bursts from her lips, spilling more liquid lyrium like pus from a spider’s sac, dribbling down her front, approaching him with deliberate slowness, yet he can’t move. He can’t move as the liquid laps at his feet, as it crawls up his leg. Every sensation disappears one by one, snuffed out by ice, and the feeling only grows as it grows – up and up and up and up and up and up until it’s at his throat and he can’t breathe, _he can’t breathe,_ and they’re like hands and they’re grabbing and he can’t _breathe_ and it enters his mouth and he’s choking Maker he’s choking and it enters his nostrils and his eyeballs and pours into the back of his head and

Cullen jolts awake.

His heartrate speeds ahead and he can still feel cold ice crawling down his throat, threatening to choke him. Gasps of air barely do anything to soothe the feeling. Instead, he grips his knees, palms and hands sweaty and his bones almost fragile beneath his iron grip.  As his head pounds with the effort to grasp reality, he can only really note a few things. For one, his clothes stick damply to his body – soaked from sweat, clammy to the touch. Another, his bedding is slick with sweat- nearly torn apart from his efforts, the pelts in no better condition. Lastly, his hand is raw - it’s raw and dull and _throbbing._ He glances down, and his stomach drops even further. An angry red welt crawls up his hand, frayed edges of what was new skin clearly torn away from the night. It had been so fragile, too, having only been formed and sewn together thanks to the Herald’s efforts. Shame joins the ménage of emotion. It takes another several heaving gasps to stop himself from vomiting, but aside from that nothing is working; despite the cold and the dampness of his body and his sheets, he’s _burning_.

He doesn’t bother with more layers. Cullen all but crawls out of his tent, the cold air chilling his sweat-slick skin. He stumbles to one of the tables still set up from the night before, fingers desperate for the brass jug sitting on it. He draws his trembling flask with his trembling hands, and he all but howls when he realizes the liquid inside the jug had long since frozen over.

He needs mead.

_Something._

Instead, his cheeks burn at the thought. He’s been many things, but never one to drink away his problems. The nausea returns in a wave, and for a hysterical second, Cullen wonders if his vomit would be the same, terrifying ice shade of lyrium.

He glares at his hand.

In the same hysterical way, he almost pleads that his hand would erupt into flame. That the residual magic that kept his wound open would somehow push from the confines of his skin. That he would use his burning, melting hand to heat this damn jug, so that the ice would melt, and maybe he could have a _damn_ drink.

* * *

Morning doesn’t come fast enough.

He doesn’t know what time it was when he stumbled back into his tent, when exactly he’d decided he no longer cared that his beddings and clothes stuck to his body before his head hit the pillow. He doesn’t dream of Red Lions and desire demons and lyrium, he doesn’t see ice blue that he confuses for magic or her, or perhaps they’re one in the same, because, Andraste preserve him, he’s not sure _what_ she is to him, and he wonders if this (surely sudden) affixation he has with her is due to the lyrium, her magic, or the fact that she’d been the one to say they were friends.

Sure, he’d suggested it, but she’d confirmed it, and –

\-  and _nothing._

She may have confirmed it and perhaps she didn’t care about the professional relationship they shared, but maybe _he’s_ the one overthinking it because, truly, she was friends with her companions. Naturally, she’d extend the same courtesy to him.

Cullen sighs as he lifts his armour over his head, the weight of the plates upon his shoulders snapping him back to reality.

He slides under the tent flap once more, tucking his bundled cargo under his arm. The rest of the camp is already awake, a stark contrast to how it was mere hours ago. With a sudden heave in his heart, Cullen realizes just how different _this_ camp is compared to the one in his nightmares, but he’s never been one to be aware of himself as he slept. Instead, his eyes rolled to the medical tents, where he knew there were still several wounded soldiers about. He grimaces.

Instead, he pivots on his heel. Some other troops brush past him as he strides forward – he can hear the snaps as they strike down his tent behind him. Cullen pulls his attention back in front of him, before he walks into a mouthful of druffalo fur. With another sigh, he reaches for the harnesses, pulling them down as he mounts his cargo on. He slaps the buckles into place, securely attaching another burlap sack to one of the sturdier latches against its hide.

The harness shifts beneath his fingers. The druffalo grunts as the cargo pulls in the opposite direction, giving a disgruntled shake at the sudden movement. “Good morning, Leliana.”

“You’re sighing a lot this morning,” is her odd, not-quite-Orlesian lilt. A few more snaps reside between them, before the lady in question steps around the animal. Her grey eyes bear into his, before they roll to his hair, then his armour. “Are you alright?”

“Just fine,” he responds quizzically. If there’s any trepidation in his voice, she merely chews on his response. Something in her expression lends to her disbelief, but as fast as he’s managed to detect it, it vanishes as she blinks.

“I’ll get someone to fetch more water. Perhaps make some cedar tea.”

“That would be… nice.” Cullen pushes a hand against his hairline, and once again he’s convinced that Leliana must be some form of omniscient, as she nods sagely and saunters off, hands clasped behind her back as she sways away.

He busies himself with attaching more of his things to the druffalo, the rousing sounds around him only a testament to the rest of the camp finally rising to their feet. Amongst the noise is _her_ voice, and for a moment his blood chills. All he can remember, all he can _see_ , is her form, shaking, as blue spouts in volumes from every orifice of her body – flooding her, cloaking her in lyrium, until she’s nothing but a ghoul oozing the foul liquid, like darkspawn, slow, shambling, mouth open but nothing but a cavity of more _blue…_

But her form is still _her._ If anything, she’s tinged pink, rosy and _soft_ , skin still smooth and unmarred by the upcoming day’s hike. Her mahogany hair is matted from behind, her clothes still somehow looking unworn and limp on her body, as if she’s not subconsciously ready for the day ahead. Her own luggage hangs limply off her arms and hands. Cullen watches as the Tevinter comes from around the corner, handing her pieces to attach to her own druffalo. Self-consciousness wells at his throat and he shifts his gaze away, giving his druffalo one last tug to ensure tightness. Amidst it all, he can hear snitches of the conversation to his left, most of it wordless until Dorian utters a single word that catches his attention.

_Sol._

Cullen doesn’t know why his stomach curls with sudden envy. Dorian’s address is so carefree and thoughtless, a liberty Cullen knows he will never share. As coworkers – _true_ coworkers, and not the more casual abandon that she shared with Dorian and the rest of her companions – he’d never get that luxury. He’d never really felt _envy_ for another man before, and yet the feeling that washes him over can’t be described as anything but.

Cullen sucks in a breath, only perking when he hears the not-so-subtle whisper of his name as well.

His eyes meet hers: brilliant blue, not at all marred with any visible fatigue, a vibrancy that wasn’t present in the haunting shade of ice that marked his dream. Her eyebrow arches, and she laughs a little. “It’s nothing, Dorian, I assure you. We’ve talked.” Cullen tries to turn away, but the Herald doesn’t give him the chance. Instead, she bows her head lightly, inviting him to her. He doesn’t think twice nor question when his pace quickens without him actively realizing it, instead he finds himself striding towards her.

“Good morning,” he says quietly.

“And you.” The Herald gives him a grin, turning to druffalo before her. The same, rhythmic snaps of her loading her cargo fills the silence for a moment. He watches her for a moment, before he reaches down and tugs a strap towards him. “Thanks,” she says, her Free March accent a pleasant note to his ear.

The druffalo’s loaded much faster with two people, and soon they step back from their work. At this point in the morning, the rest of camp has all been reduced to rolls and folded furniture, waiting to be loaded onto the awaiting animals or onto people’s backs. The activity near the animals has tripled. Now, the two of them, as he’s all too aware, wade through the swath of people loading and preparing for departure.

It’s easy for Cullen, for him to lose himself in the rhythm of their steps. He could count the crunching of snow beneath his feet, or the light inhales that ghost from her lips, or even the way his heart pounds unsteadily in his chest. But against his better judgement, against the initial hesitation, he blurts, “he calls you by your first name.”

The Herald perks, before a light chuckle breezes from her lips. “Dorian? He insists.” Her nose scrunches, her eyes trained far beyond them in thought. “Something about how surnames reminds him of home – the formality is an insult. It’s formal detachment seen as patronizing.” Her shoulders rise, then drop, with a weight he didn’t expect. “I don’t mind it, however. And you,” the Herald turns to him suddenly, her eye contact electrifying. Cullen’s breath hitches. “Please, Herald is too formal. Sol is fine, as well.”

 _Because we’re friends now?_ The thought swirls in Cullen’s brain, but it doesn’t stop the rush of warmth that suddenly leaves him a little breathless.  “I couldn’t, I-“

“Trevelyan, then,” she amends matter-of-factly. “I cannot stand you not using my name.”

A sudden memory surfaces in his mind, when she was all too cold and all too pale and all too _tired_ as she stumbled forward, right into his arms, his _name_ tumbling from her mouth. No ‘commander’, no address, simply _Cullen._

“Then you?” he murmurs.

She wrinkles her nose, each miniature crevice somehow endearing in a backwards fashion. “Anything other than _Commander_ seems too informal.”

“Surely you jest,” he teases, but the thought of just _being_ ‘Cullen’ and not ‘Commander’ sends his heart into a nervous stutter.

She laughs a bit now. “ _Commander_ Cullen?” The way her voice caresses the syllables is – he doesn’t have words to describe what it is. But he _likes_ it. He’s always _liked_ the sound of his name on her tongue, he realizes and now he has to fight to swallow back the words that fought to surface.

“If you wish,” he can only manage, somewhat lamely.

And as he walked away, he realizes how _light_ he feels.  His hand still tingles with her phantom touch of her fingers ghosting across his palm as she hoisted herself onto her mount. Above all, his night terrors are nothing more but morning mist, chased away by the sunlight and her thankful smile.

* * *

A few telltale snaps and sparks dance and meld into the flush of conversations still audible from where Cullen sits, several feet away from camp. He can see the steady orange glow that outlines the treeline of their temporary settings. He turns his attention back to the water, which simmers with hints of warm reds and yellows amongst its inky black, and he plunges his clothing in. The fabrics ripple, pockets of air bursting to the surface as he submerges them with the weight of his palms. He sighs once, before grabbing a fistful of material, swirling it one way then the other.

Gathering his clothes into soaked clothes into a basin, Cullen shifts his weight back, resting his wet hands against his knees.

Already his body was used to the uphill trek that was the snowy Frostback Mountains: where his feet once ached, now it was normal, as if he’d been hiking this route daily. Yet the scenery is always different; one day, all that their eyes were met by sheer cliff face. Sometimes, a snowy expanse. Today, it was more greenery. Tall pines and evergreens had dotted the skies, clashing violently against the smoky blue hues that paint in broad strokes above their heads. Their unintentionally-decorative collective garments of browns and reds had stood foreign against what should’ve been unmarred white. The scattered nature of the offending colours reminds Cullen of flecked blood, the vision all too familiar – all too _ripe_ – and he can almost feel the phantom ache in his palm after withdrawing his sword from the hides of Red Lions.

In the first passive moment of silence, he could only remember the large, seemingly-formless shadowy masses which were those terrible beasts. He wasn’t sure at the time they were the same beasts as his nightmare, but now it’s all too apparent that they’re one and the same. Cullen turns his left hand up, his eyes tracing the sensitive skin that marked its way up his palm. He flexes his hand once. Sinewy muscle rolls with the movement, the red angry flesh wrinkling in a surprisingly fragile manner, as if the layers of new skin hadn’t already torn from the previous night. His hand had ached when he’d seen the Red Lions, ached when he gripped his sword. Throbbed in his dreams, when he saw those formless shadows, the ones that kept flickering back and forth, in and out of reality, before they grabbed various people here and there, tearing them limb from limb, and all he could do is grip his sword, _hand throbbing_ -

Soft, padding steps startle him out of his stupor. _Who – what?_ His hand scrabbles for a sword that isn’t there; and for a second, he thinks he may truly be in danger. But upon turning, he realizes it’s only the Herald – _Trevelyan –_ who watches him quizzically.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Cullen breathes, suddenly aware of his stuttering heart.  He exhales out, willing to regain some control over his heart beat. Even he can’t have that, he realizes with bitterness, so he swallows instead, stuffing his hand into a pocket. “I thought that you were something else.”

“Some _t_ _hing_?" Trevelyan inquires as she kneels, and Cullen notices that tucked under her arm is a similar basin full of clothes. She sets down the laundry beside her, tenderly rolling her sleeves to expose her thin forearms. Her skin is that delightful shade of cream, and, as his hands trace down her arm, her hands are delicate, somewhat plump if to be compared to a soldier’s hands. _His_ hands.

He blinks. “The Red Lions.”

“Ah,” she responds thoughtfully as she, too, submerges her own basin. “Solas had informed me. And you?”

“Dwaine.”

“The hunter that spoke to Rylen?”

“From Haven, yes.”

“Ah,” she says again, distractedly. He watches as she scrubs at her robes and clothing, her fingers working furiously in the water. Her hair falls from its usual careful upkeep, brushing along her cheeks, a strand caught on her lip. “And what did he say?”

Cullen grimaces. The memory of the shorter, stocky man jogging up to him after he’d left the medical tent the night previous was still vibrant in his mind. “He warned me that it wasn’t just stragglers, like Rylen had thought. Red Lions mark their prey. That they –“

“ – wouldn’t stop at nothing? Solas said something similar,” Trevelyan murmurs. She cocks her head towards him, her eyes wide and inquiring. “Though he presented it as a fact, and not a rumour.”

“Actually, Dwaine was the same.” Cullen says, turning his attention the water. “I guess Rylen misinterpreted.”

“Well. I think we put enough space between us and them. Unless it’s apparent, I don’t think we need to worry about it any further.” Her tone is matter-of-factly, to the point. Cullen’s envious of how simply she’s parsed it all out, and he wishes he could believe in her conviction as much as she does.

“Soap?”

He raises his head to her outstretched hand. Cullen blinks at the gesture, before he suddenly remembers the laundry that was still awaiting his attention. He chews his lip and tosses the wrapped package to Trevelyan, who swiftly undoes the white strings, revealing the coarse scrubs within. With a languid pull, the entire basin comes clean from the pond, streams of water pouring from the edges and spilling back into the larger body. She begins scrubbing, the small basin of water and clothes beginning to bubble and turn a pearly grey.

They sit in silence, her only scrubbing her clothing in circular patterns, the sound of lopping water and wet fabric filling the void made more apparent by the neighboring chatter from their camp. Cullen sits, aware of how his blood pumps around his ears, how his fingers tingle in their fists, how he’s vaguely embarrassed to show her his left hand.

“You’re doing your own laundry?” Is her warm voice, somewhat hesitant, entirely redundant – and for a moment, Cullen wonders if she, too, is just aware of how pregnant their silence was.

He clears his throat. “I insisted. Everyone has their own things to worry about. I’m nothing but a glorified soldier.”

“Nonsense,” Trevelyan responds. And for a moment, it’s as if she’s grateful for the opportunity to speak. “If that’s the case, I’m nothing more than a mage.”

He lets a chuckle spill from his lips. “You’re a Trevelyan.”

“As you are the Commander of the Inquisition,” she says fairly. Trevelyan then grasps the edges of her basin, tipping the contents back into the pond. With her delicate touch, she places the soaps back on top of the brown packaging, sliding the entirety of the contents back towards him with the tips of her fingers. Cullen gives her a brief smile, before similarly grasping own basin and pulling his laundry onto the space in front of him.

“And I was a Templar before then. No one would do our laundry even if we begged,” he says jokingly. The soaps nearly slip from his grasp, but he grips them just in time, the pebbled surface digging into his palms. He gingerly withdraws his other hand and begins to scrub out the grime from his coat. “Though I suspect your experience differs.”

Trevelyan hums thoughtfully. “You’d be correct in assuming I hadn’t had to do my own laundry. But I had other occupations. Knitting, sewing. This is a substitute, I suppose. And it gives me leave to think.”

As much as Cullen shares those sentiments, he merely remains silent, instead focusing his efforts onto his chores. He agreed – and yet this time, when left to his own devices, all he could muster was the recollection of nightmares he’d much rather bury and never mention again.

“Do you miss it?” The words tumble from his mouth before he realizes.

She blinks. “Do you?”

He thinks for a moment – remembers the terror from the circle, the death and destruction in Kirkwall, the exploding chantries, the helplessness, the inescapable feeling of _loss_ and confusion.

“No.”

“It’s not my life anymore,” she says simply. “Though I’d like to return one day, and see my family again. I thought – maybe, within the Circle…” Trevelyan reaches into the lake, pulling soaked robes from the depths. With a quick shake, she wrings the clothing once, water spilling noisily. “But as Herald now, unless we have official business in the Free Marches, I suspect that that’s that.”

Cullen exhales, his fingers combing a mechanical rhythm as his own basin goes from clear to milky grey. “I’m sorry.”

She shoots him a glance; it’s warm, friendly, and – scarily, unguarded. “Don’t be,” she responds gently. Warmth suddenly blossoms from her mere presence, but Cullen knows it’s not internally, for once. His cheeks rose at the sudden warmth, and if he listens, he could hear the quiet and subtle hissing of steam as heat pulses from the mage’s fingertips. She gave a grin. “I like being a mage.”

With that, she nods farewell; Cullen could only stare at her retreating figure, where she left modestly warm footsteps in her wake.

* * *

He’s in his tent, pulling his wet clothes from the basin, hanging them along the single rope that ran lengthwise across his tent, when he hears footsteps approach. His heartrate speeds again, urging him to grab his sword, but instead Cullen pushes the tent flap aside. Josephine blinks back at him, one hand holding a wooden flagon of steaming liquid. “Mead?” he inquires, and he doesn’t bring up the fact that no Ferelden’s preferred their mead warm.

“Tea, actually,” the Antivan responds. “And it’s for you. Cassandra recommended it.”

Ah. Of course. “Thank you,” Cullen says, and he plucks the drink for her hands.

Josephine looks worse for wear – though to her credit, she still seems lively. Though her gold threads are absent, she doesn’t seem as lost as she could’ve been. Adorned in thick furs and a furry hood, for a moment Cullen could believe she’s a native to the Frostbacks.

The woman sighs. “I wish I could do more, be of more help. I feel out of my element. I can’t exactly send notice of our relocation, not yet, anyways.”

“Why not?”

Josephine takes a breath, as if indignified. “Why, Commander, we cannot publicize our defeat! Once we find a new location, though, it could be spun into a tale of redemption.” Her hazel eyes glaze and a smile plays on the corner of her lip. “Rise of the ashes – no, the return of the Herald, like Ferelden’s rebuilding after the Blight – I should ask Varric for suggestions.”

Cullen chuckles into the rim of the flagon. “How romantic.”

“Oh hush,” Josephine responds lightly. Once again, Cullen’s reminded about how thankful he is for the Antivan’s presence; Leliana could be dark, Cassandra (clearly) overbearing. Josephine at least could find light in most situations, otherwise he’d be too reminded about how much of Thedas relied on them. How one mistake, one loss, could be the end of them.

“But speaking of _romantic,_ how goes it between you and the Herald?”

 _That_ nearly makes Cullen choke on his drink. “E-Excuse me?” he sputters, and he’s only met by Josephine’s tinkling giggles.

“Why _Commander_! We aren’t dense, especially not Leliana.”

“Maker,” he groans, and he occupies himself by taking another, this time surely, scalding gulp of tea. It burns on its descent, but it doesn’t do as he vaguely wishes it would – that is, take him out of his body, and away from this conversation.

Josephine giggles again. “I’m just teasing you, Cullen. Though she truly is lovely. And strong. And growing by the day.”

“She _is_ marvelous,” he admits, and for a brief second, his heart thumps unevenly. Truly. From the way she moves, the way she commands, her authority, her kindness…

“Also, Seeker Pentaghast suggested that you take this,” Josephine continues, holding out a small object. Upon first glance, Cullen’s blood chills – the small vial resembles a phylactery, but the contents are a milky white as opposed to viscous red. And that the vial is just that – a vial. “Deathroot milk, mixed by Adan,” the Antivan supplies mildly. “To help you sleep. Cassandra suggested that if you take it, take it with the tea.”

Cullen stares at the vial. On one hand, he never was one to support substance use unless absolutely necessary. But it seems like this time, it _is_ necessary. So he accepts the vial, uncorking it. He glances as it once – imagining himself drinking it only reminds him of the times he’s chugged lyrium without any avail – and downs it. The flavor is rather pungent, and he takes a modest swig of tea, now cold. Cullen’s not sure if it’s the milk or otherwise, but he sudden feels _tired_. His eyelids droop and he all but thrusts the empty flagon back into the Antivan’s hands (to her credit, she catches it without so much as a blink).

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome, Commander.” She smiles warmly. “Sleep well. You seem like you need it.”

Cullen tries to offer a smile in return, though he’s not sure if he manages it.

Instead, he ducks back into his tent, undoing the clasps to his armour. His head spins, but it’s almost dizzyingly pleasant, in that he knows if he were to lie down, his world would black out. He’d know nothing but the pleasurable comfort of nothingness, which surely may be a discomfort to some, but would be reprieve to him…

“Commander, surely you don’t intend to leave your wet clothes hanging there!”

“It doesn’t matter,” he manages.

“We have mages, I could ask them to –“

“- Josephine.”

Pause. “Sorry. … If you’re _sure_ , Commander.”

“I am,” he says gently.

“As you wish, then. Goodnight.”

 _Goodnight_ , he thinks. And it is, too, for his sleep is dreamless, and blissfully so.

 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the delay -- I've been very busy with school. This isn't too long of a chapter, but it focuses on world building and some relationship developments.

“Cullen?”

He blinks, sluggish. It takes him a second to register Cassandra’s eyes, her molten gold irises burning into his. He suddenly feels vulnerable, exposed; as if her piercing gaze could stare through all his defenses – really see him beyond the barriers he’d tried to maintain.

Cullen swallows. “Pardon?” He tries not to wince as he notices his voice audibly crack.

For a second, something like concern carves its way onto the Seeker’s face. Her scar deepens as her eyebrows pull up. “You seem distracted. Perhaps I should tell Adan to up the dosage.”

“No – the dosage was good, thank you.” And Cullen means it truthfully – the somehow comforting thought of entirely  _ nothingness _ was new to him. Yet he found his body relishing in the silence, in the lack of nightmares, in which he saw too much death and too much  _ blue _ . His entire body feels as if it is sagging in protest, unable to resist the tendrils of sleep that had gripped him so powerfully merely hours ago. He must’ve been very obviously out of it – the packing process was a blur; all he could remember was the faint echoes of what surely was his voice, answering for him without any consultation. It shouldn’t have been any surprise that Cassandra had at least half an eye on his activities. He swallows again – thickly, this time – and rubs his gloved hands together. “And I’m fine. Cold.”

Cassandra lets a muted laugh. “You make it sound as if you’re not Ferelden,” she says, her accent not quite suiting her teasing words, yet Cullen is grateful for them anyways. A puff of condensed air expunges from his mouth, quickly disintegrating into his surroundings, light like a falling handkerchief.

Instead, his eyes lock onto the Herald’s back. He could say that his eyes weren’t drawn there – that she was a natural distance away from him, just perfectly in the line of sight due to her being on horseback, but he’d since recognized the excuse for what it was. Her presence is comforting, warm. His heart stutters once at the thought: she is sanctuary, in different ways than sleep, than dreamless nights.

The thought lingers on his brain longer than he supposes it should’ve.

* * *

Her footsteps are light, uninhibited by thick-clad boots and similar adornments. They stop squarely in front of him; Cullen looks up, greeted by her ice-blue gaze in full. “You should take my horse,” Sol says simply, easily, like it’s the most obvious thought she’d ever had.

It’s the reverse for him, of course. He swallows through his mouthful of rabbit and reaches for his handkerchief, she beats him to it, holding the fabric in dainty fingertips. He takes it from her, the tips of each digit skimming against his gloved palms, before he wipes his mouth down. “I couldn’t,” Cullen says lamely.

Sol blinks, one hand tucking on her hip. “Then Blackwall’s. Or Dorian’s. You looked, still look, a little ill.” The urge to crack a small, ironic grin hits Cullen – how is it that after perhaps one of the best sleeps he’s had,  _ now  _ he looks ill? Instead he frowns, biting his lip. How long had she been watching? How did she notice?  _ When _ ?

He pushes the intruding thought from his mind, disrupting the image of her wide eyes tracing every step, nay, every movement he took. He chases away the wild flutter in his chest, swallows down the bashfulness that plays at his throat. “If you’re certain,” he finds himself saying, and she treats him with a full smile, so much so that he finds himself unable to carry on what he’d been able to do just moments ago.

The exchange of horses goes quickly. The Grey Warden hands him the reins; Cullen watches as the Herald gives a quick heave. Effortless. Briefly, he wonders if horse riding was another skill bestowed in part of being a Trevelyan – there would be no explanation otherwise for a Circle Mage. Yet he says nothing as he swings a leg over his own horse, the motion achingly familiar. Similarly, as a Templar, he rarely had to travel via horseback. It was his Honnleath background that gave him this skill, and as the first few telltale bumps makes him quickly stiffen his pelvis and adjust accordingly, Cullen subconsciously notices how comfortable he is atop of an Inquisition steed.

They’d set a decent pace. Cullen isn’t tired, yet he still feels his eyes threatening to droop. The steady  _ clip clop  _ of horses across the melting snow, coupled with the rhythmic bumps that he’d long since braced himself for, were all somehow a lullaby. Regardless, he jostles awake when he notices the Herald’s horse lagging behind, and before he knows it, its pace matches perfectly with his. She gives him a brief glance, before the corners of her eyes crinkle with her smile. “You seem more like you belong on a steed.”

“Nonsense,” he replies before he really thinks. Even so, it’s true: he’d rather be shown to be the same as the men, and not in a place of reverence as she. Besides, a man worth revering wouldn’t have these troubling thoughts, these inexplicable and painful urges – certainly not  _ nightmares  _ about lyrium, about her. He disregards the thought, especially at her suspect gaze, and he lets a surrendering sigh. “I suppose I look as comfortable as you do.”

“Hah,” Sol gives, and her blue eyes twinkle with something that isn’t resentment, which is surprising given her following words. “I know it’s not a skill most Circle Mages have, and I’m not going to pretend it was a unique practice at Ostwick.”

“Your family?”

“As I suspect yours,” Sol responds without missing a beat.

Cullen shrugs. “I’m from Honnleath.”

For a second, Sol looks the slightest bit confused. “Honnleath has a Bann?”

A similar grin spreads on his lips, one of incredulity and a little something stronger. “No,” he responds. “Not really. Honnleath is a farming town. Horses were all but given, I suppose.” He shrugs, not missing the return of confusion in her eyes. It clears, and she looks as if she might berate herself.

“I didn’t mean to assume.”

His heart stutters once. “It’s okay – really,” he all but whispers the last word. In that second, the Herald turns away. He thinks she might be done with the subject, perhaps disinterested now that she knows –but before the shame could sink in and for the bile could pool at his stomach, he realizes that her cheeks are tinged red.  _ She’s embarrassed,  _ he realizes with a light, fluttering inhale. His hands feel numb, either from the cold, the entire situation, or the simultaneously familiar and unfamiliar grip of the reins. They remain that way a while, his heart louder than he’d expected, torsos gently swaying with the momentum of their steeds.

“You thought I was a Bann?” He can’t help it: the words tumble from his mouth before he could stop them. Sol’s eyes dart up and catch his. An odd sheepishness edges her words, a hesitation that was simultaneously foreign and endearing.

“In Ostwick, really only nobility knew how to ride.” Sol clarifies as she shakes the reins lightly, the combination of leathers and metals clattering emphasizing her point. “I actually had my own steed, before I was sent off to the Circle.”

“Ah,” Cullen sighs. It suddenly dawns on him that she’s so  _ willing  _ to share, and for once in his life, he too finds himself equally so. “I never had a horse of my own. Mia and my parents offered, of course – but I skipped over the opportunity and gave it to Rosalie. I was too set on, uh-“ Bashfulness makes the words stick to his throat, for those brief few seconds he remembers she’s a mage.  _ Maker.  _ He tries not to wince, tries to swallow the chastising words that his mind whispers, edged with the madness of lyrium –

“You have siblings?”

“I-I’ve never mentioned them?” Cullen coughs into the back of his hand. Sol merely shakes her head, mahogany ringlets bouncing at the motion. He sighs. “Three,” he says with his exhale.

“I have two, myself,” Sol supplies conversationally. Cullen nods, extremely aware of the pace of his heart, how her soothing words allows him leave to breathe deeper. They ride again, in the same tension-filled silence that has his throat dry.

“So you always knew you wanted to be a Templar?” She whispers, her voice barely audible. Cullen snaps up, and a quick look around reveals that they’d somehow pulled ahead of the group. The rest of her inner circle are a good several dozen paces away, following at a deliberate pace. To grant them privacy? His cheeks rose at the thought – and he’s all too aware of her gaze, the unfairly, neutral, nonjudgemental gaze that she transfixes upon him.

“Yes.” Quieter, “I was transfixed.”

Sol  _ shrugs,  _ and his heart thuds irrationally. “The Trevelyans have always been close to the Ostwick Templars.” And then, of all things, she  _ snorts _ . “If I weren’t a mage, I wouldn’t be surprised if we were subordinates – in a different fashion. You may have even been my commander.”

“Nonsense,” he says, half incredulous. “You’d still be the Herald.”

“Which would make this ever more complicated,” Sol says, a tinkling her of her laughter augmenting her last few words. Cullen finds himself chuckling along with her, at only the impossibility: Sol Trevelyan, a Templar? He finds her magnificent as a mage; magnificent, like the magic  _ suited  _ her – he’s seen her face lit with streaks of gold and white, green and blue, her oak staff secured beneath those delicate fingers of hers. If she were a Templar, would her hands be like his – rough, worn, incapable of tenderness? It seems so impossible, so unlikely; yet if circumstances were different, it’s true: she may have been his subordinate. He knew a handful of Ostwick ex-Templars who worked with the Inquisition, and he’s even on occasion seen her murmuring lowly to another soldier, and it only occurred then that that man must’ve once served at her circle.

Her voice softly calling his name snaps him from his reverie. “Is that so absurd?”

“I’m not certain,” Cullen finds himself murmuring. Her eagle-like eyes survey him, probing, like she  _ knows  _ there’s more to his reluctant response. He swallows, working through the sudden lump that had formed deep in his throat. After another beat of silence, her wispy exhale catches him by surprise. 

“I won’t pry,” she breathes. And then, a little more serious, “but I  _ am  _ curious.”

A half chuckle, half snort somehow exudes from his lips. “Isn’t that prying?” He says quietly, only to be treated by a lopsided upturn of her lips. He rolls his eyes -- the thudding of his heart is ten times louder, a strange awkwardness-yet-forwardness fuelling his newfound desire to  _ share _ . It was silly, unlike him, completely  _ absurd _ ; a quiet voice, egging him on - telling him to  _ try _ , a leap of faith - and it was simply  _ madness.  _ His heart leaps and Maker, it might come from his mouth, but what comes instead are words he hadn’t consented. Not consciously. 

“I like you as a mage.” 

It’s barely a whisper, quiet and lithe, and Cullen suddenly wishes Sol lapsed into temporary hard of hearing. Yet her little smile widens, spreading to the full flush of her lips, and he swears he imagines red dust the apples of her cheeks.  _ Maker,  _ his heart jumps and his hands feel numb -- if it’s not for the consistent sway of his steed, he may have even stumbled. For several moments, silence hangs between them, dense, palpable.  _ Awkward,  _ he can’t help but to think, and even then, it wasn’t so much of a  _ confession.  _ The blatant truth, because he’d only known Trevelyan as a mage, and he can’t imagine her as anyone else -- yet that voice is gleeful, ecstatic at his own choice of words, rewarding in his mind aside from condemning. 

She looks like she may say something. Certainly her eyes brighten and her lips rub together, coating the already pink flesh with a mild sheen. But her name is called and she whips her head around -- and it’s all shattered. And Cullen, calm his racing heart, isn’t sure if that’s a blessing or a curse. 

What he does do, though, is shoot a glare at a certain horse-backed grinning Vint, and another to the too-observant Spymaster just a few paces beyond him.

* * *

“She’s a remarkable woman.”

“I wasn’t aware you played chess.” 

“Certainly, Commander -- we play all the time in Tevinter. She’s also very lovely - inquisitive too. Entirely appropriate, I suppose, considering the circumstance.” 

“Then do all Tevinters cheat?” 

“Only in Winter,” Dorian says with a lopsided grin, “which is  _ all the time  _ in these blighted Mountains.” He plays with the pawn grasped between his thumb and forefinger. “You may want to consider some subtlety, Commander -- it doesn’t appear to be your forte, if your chess strategy says anything.” 

Cullen raises an eyebrow as the Tevinter places his piece close to his fortification around his Queen. “Your cheating isn’t  _ that  _ subtle.” 

“ _ My heart _ ,” gasps the mage without so much of a blink of his eye. “I’ll have you know that  _ my _ tactics are not reflective of how I am in the realms of romance.” He leans back, tapping his finger against the makeshift board, propped precariously atop a barrel that once held spare furs. “As for unsubtle, your attempts to avoid speaking about Sol?” 

Cullen sighs, stretching each limb as slowly as he can. All the while, he’s too aware of the mage’s stare, the patience behind the warm brown gaze, the half grin that continues to tug at his lips. “If it means you’ll stop inquiring,” he murmurs, all too aware of the pink that must be colouring the tips of his ears, “I care for her.” 

“An admission at last!” Dorian exclaims, thankfully not loud enough to turn heads, but enough for the Commander to feel heat swell along the corner of his cheeks. Sure enough, his face feels warm and his throat suddenly deprives itself of saliva. Yet a small part of him feels marginally better, that same  _ voice  _ whispering encouragement like caresses into his ear.  

“And yet I’m not certain why I told you.” 

“Because, Commander, love works in mysterious ways.” At Cullen’s incredulous stare, the mage brushes nonchalantly at his lap. “Or, I’m just  _ that  _ charismatic.” 

“You jest,” Cullen says. He stubbornly wants to deny it - that  _ caring  _ for her isn’t the same as  _ fancying  _ for her, that it’s much more complicated and much less naive than simply feeling affection towards her. There’s something else - a  _ danger  _ that buzzes in her veins, a notion he admits is entirely unique to him. His head swirls with these cyclical thoughts, ebbing and flowing against the barriers of his lips, and instead, he flicks the opposing King until it clatters on its side. There’s only a heartbeat of silence, in which Dorian looks at the board once, then at him, those eyes widening only a hairline, before Cullen grins. “I believe this is mine.” 

“Blast,” says the mage lightheartedly. “And I suppose that means I cannot pry more information from you?” 

Cullen blinks, the sudden troubling thoughts vanquished from his mind, and in its place he can’t help but to wonder what is with all the  _ prying  _ as of late. Yet he shrugs, as effortless as he can manage. “It would require another game,” he offers simply, but the prospect of sharing any more of him - his feelings, sure, but his dreams, his  _ terrors _ , suddenly has him swallowing his words back down his throat. 

To his immense gratitude, Dorian merely shakes a hand. “And be trounced again? Not twice in a night, good sir. I do have more self respect than that.” And then, that odd  _ twinkle  _ in his eye reappears - the same terrifying sign of clairvoyance that he seemed to share with Cassandra. “Besides, I don’t know if  _ you  _ can deal with more admissions yourself. Heavens, or you’ll start believing it!”

He stares. “What?” 

“Exactly. Now shoo, and do not let me be the blame for the Commander’s absence.” With that, he’s clearly dismissed -- Dorian gives another wave and rearranges the board, but to whom would be his next opponent, Cullen doesn’t know. Instead, he steps away, head lost in thought, and nearly barrels directly into Cassandra, who merely arches an eyebrow at his blunder. 

Her eyes flit to him, then over his shoulder. “I take it you won?” 

The fluttering of his heart calms in the Seeker’s presence, but whether it's due to an almost guilty sobering or otherwise, he merely takes the opportunity to rub the back of his neck. “Trounced him, as Dorian puts it.” 

For a second, a half-smile tugs at her lips. “You speak as if you are surprised at it. I don’t think you give yourself enough credit.” 

He swallows through words that bubble in his throat, the immediate questioning of her opinions. Surely, Cassandra  _ knew  _ him, but she also knew of him before the mage rebellion. How she can hold him in such high regard is beyond him -- especially now, away from the distraction of chess, when he could feel the dull ache and longing for the substance that flowed in the mage’s veins. Yet he remains perfectly still, aware of the fact that the Seeker is similarly immobile just a few inches away, watching as the Iron Bull takes his unoccupied space adjacent to the chess table. As Dorian says a few inaudible words, and the Qunari merely huffs a laugh before leaning forward, capturing a too-small pawn in his too-large hands. 

“You haven’t told her.” Her words cut the silence between them, and his heart thuds once in a spastic rhythm. “Of your predicament,” Cassandra clarifies, to his relief. 

“No,” he responds dutifully. “You believe I should.” It isn’t a question.

Cassandra turns to him, the hard lines of her face only more pronounced -- or perhaps he’s grown used to seeing them softer, especially in the presence of the Herald. “You and I both know she’s destined for something greater -- if Andraste hasn’t already bestowed that upon her.” He can hear the snow crunch under her foot as she shifts her weight. “She deserves to know,” she adds, just a touch quieter. 

But  _ should  _ she know? What would she think of him - a fool? Pathetic? No, Cullen couldn’t bear having her think him so. And the revelation’s childish,selfish, if not absurd; yet he finds himself more and more accepting of the  _ absurd  _ as of late. He swallows, all too aware of the thickness of it, and his hands grip the hilt of his sword. “When would that be appropriate - nay, I doubt it be appropriate at all. She is a mage, and I have made many mistakes. I wouldn’t want this to be one, too.” 

Sympathy lights the Seeker’s golden gaze. “I see that it is not that you don’t give yourself enough credit, but that you’re too hard on yourself. A man can make mistakes, but in the Maker’s eyes, there can be mercy. Forgiveness, too, if you’d allow it.” And then something like fondness colours her tone. “And she may surprise you.” 

The words betrayingly warm his heart, jumpstarting the staccato only to hammer in his chest. It’s true -- it’d appear the Herald’s specialty  _ is  _ simply surprising him in the pleasantest of ways possible. It’s easier for him to focus on the chess game (to his mild surprise, they seem evenly matched, though he’s certain that the mage had found a way to manipulate that in his favour) than respond. To Cassandra’s credit, she seems privy to his thoughts. She allows him a few heartbeats of reflection, before she adds, “As for an appropriate time -- I do not know. It may never come. We’re at war, Commander, is there ever an appropriate time?” 

_ No,  _ he answers for her. And as they stand there, watching as Dorian passionately blames the Bull for something or rather, Cullen can’t help but to suspect that her words have a double meaning. Blame the lyrium, the paranoia, or, for all purposes, what was until recently his sleepless nights -- but Cullen could’ve sworn that everyone  _ knew _ , and he’s just absolute  _ rubbish  _ at hiding it. 


End file.
